


Verses

by squidhat



Series: Verses [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidhat/pseuds/squidhat
Summary: “You’re wrong about one thing: words can fail us. It is their arrangement that is our responsibility. Using them properly – omitting inappropriate and trite words, adding others – that takes skill.”The story of a warrior poet and a Jedi. Marked NSFW for future chapters.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Joveaux "Jovi" Benning, though she's a Jedi Consular in-game, is not my canon Outlander/Empress. Special thanks to defira85/exemplarisvictoria on Tumblr for your encouragement in this entire process!

Prologue

 

To: Commander Zayetana Hern

From: ERROR – NO USER EXISTS

Subject: Jovi Benning

Commander,

I have felt in the Force a resurgence I hadn’t found in years, and it left me delighted and hopeful.

I’ve had many Padawan learners over the years. Jovi Benning was one of them. She came to the Jedi as a youngling, barely five, an orphan gleaned from war-torn Balmorra. I knew from the moment I saw her that she was not destined for great power in the Force, or to someday join the Council, but the Force had other plans for her. She was intelligent, and seemed to have more of a passion for learning than for martial skills. This pleased me. A Jedi does not need to serve by leading or marching with troops. Some can chase back the darkness with knowledge. Not enough young Jedi choose to maintain holocrons, or to seek the effects of the Force on life itself, or to record our history.

I sent Jovi to study under the Republic scientists trying to rebuild her home planet of Balmorra. She also spent some time at the university on Coruscant. We recalled her to Tython to apply her knowledge to the local twi’lek population, and help them produce more food for their village.

It was an error I greatly regret. She was on Tython when the Empire erroneously attacked under covert Revanite encouragement. She was discovered in her lab, close to death; had the healers not been so close, she would have died. She lost both of her legs at the knee and suffered scarring over a portion of her body. Though her body recovered, her mind was irrevocably damaged. She suffered nightmares and hallucinations of the attack. Our healers attempted to soothe her mind, but their success proved limited. We discovered that her science was what seemed to offer her the most comfort. We helped her rebuild her lab and hoped that the passage of time would heal her mind.

I lost track of her when the Eternal Empire attacked; I’d heard that she left Tython to aid refugees on Balmorra. To see her again, in Wild Space, fills me with joy. I don’t have access to a complete list of her accolades in the science field, but I’m sure you can find it on the holonoet.

You will want Jovi to help heal your people. Jovi will want to help. I want to see her fulfill her purpose in the Force.

May the Force be with you both,

Satele Shan

 

To: Dr. Oggurobb

From: Commander Zayetana Hern

Subject: Joveaux Benning, Plant Biologist

Doctor,

I’m forwarding a personnel file to you for your review. This one came to my attention as a favor from a friend, but I think she’d make an excellent addition to your team. Our longterm occupation of Odessen is going to require scientists that can find ways to increase fresh food production. This appears to be Benning’s area of expertise.

The good news is that she’s already here on Odessen. She arrived with the rest of the Asylum refugees a few weeks ago.

Let me know if you need anything.

 

To: Cmdr. Hern

From: Dr. Oggurobb

Subject: Re: Joveaux Hern

Absolutely! I’ve already met Jovi and offered her a tour of the lab. She’s picked out her own table to hold her experiments. She brought much of her equipment with her, and her remaining needs will not cost our lab much.

She is delightful! I am always pleased to find another talented scientist for the lab. Her concentration area – the Force’s effects on plant life – is one that I’ve always been curious about. We can learn much from one another!

Give your friend my gratitude, should you hear from them again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood and opera.

One

_My wounds belong to me;_

_Rips of mistakes, deep into the sinew_

_Skin thicker than the rest of my flesh._

_Shaped over my neck and ears,_

_Guardians of my veins and sinew,_

_Sloping in angles down my chest._

_My wounds belong to me;_

_Red-hot violence, down to the marrow_

_Sins in knots curving over my knees._

_Bulwark of blood-stained boots_

_Suffocating skin from ankle to thigh,_

_Kicking drumbeat and heartbeat away._

_My wounds belong to me;_

_They write songs of my deeds._

_I wear their bulk as a shield_

_And wield screeching, etching agony_

_Humming of extermination_

_Between my two red hands._

  * Prince Arcann Tirall, _Songs of a Warrior Poet_ , 3631 BBY



 

Snarling, Arcann tumbled into the waiting shuttle. His light grey Alliance armor was splattered with blood, very little of it his own. His cybernetic prosthetic arm hung lifelessly at his side, dangling and folding oddly as he sat up and climbed into the nearest seat.

“It doesn’t look severe.” Senya sat down next to him, her fingers gliding over the gash across Arcann’s left temple. Blood oozed from the wound.

“Those snipers focused their fire on me – they took out the power module on my arm!” Clenching his teeth, Arcann craned his neck as he manipulated the broken limb with his right hand.

“I’m more concerned about your head.” The package covering a bacta patch crinkled as Senya tore it open. “Hold still.” She applied it with gentle fingers.

From the pilot’s seat, Theron winced. “Let me get in the air and I’ll have a look at it. I’m not promising anything. You have some pretty advanced cybernetics. But I might be able to splice something together.” He pressed a few buttons on the console in front of him. The door to the shuttle slammed shut as the vehicle rose up in the air with a jerk. Blaster fire peppered the hull, but caused no real damage.

“I’m alright, Mother. Don’t fuss over me.” Arcann looked down at Senya, who took hold of his prosthetic arm, turning it so that the palm faced the ceiling of the shuttle. A spark snapped into the air, followed by an angry hiss from the box located within the limb’s bicep.

Senya’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, but the gentle beep of a communicator interrupted her. She instead drew out her communicator. The holographic figure of Zayetana appeared upon its surface.

“Report,” said the Empress, simply.

“Arcann and I were unable to extract the spy. The Heralds of Zildrog poisoned him before we arrived.” Senya gave a shake of her head. “But we did recover his audio logs.”

Theron gave a grunt. “Lana and I will be busy analyzing those for days,” he murmured, studying a monitor for a moment before making a few selections.

Zayetana sighed, her head dipping for a moment at the news. “I’m not pleased to hear that. It’s not your fault. Ethar should have run when he had the chance. Let’s hope the files are worth his life. Anything else to report?”

“Arcann sustained some minor injuries –“ Senya began.

“ – I’m _fine_ , Mother!” He protested, annoyance plain in his voice.

“ – during our extraction. Tell Oggurobb that he’ll need repairs to his prosthetic,” Senya finished, glaring at Arcann.

“I’ll notify him immediately.” Zayetana nodded her head, her gaze shifting to Arcann for a moment, before her face became placid once again. “Zayetana out.”

“They’re not chasing us. Good.” Theron shifted the shuttle through the atmosphere of the planet, the sight through the windows shifting from gray clouds to the blackness of space. “We’ll be back on Odessen in a few. Do you still want me to look at that arm?”

“No. That’s not necessary.” Arcann sat back in his seat, strapping himself in with a few clicks of buckles into belts. “Unless you’re hiding a Adascorp series 1000 power module in that jacket of yours.”

“I like my jacket,” said Theron without looking up from his panel. “But I don’t make a habit of carrying around cybernetic parts.”

“Oh, I like your jacket, too – don’t misunderstand me here.” Arcann found himself wondering about his own appearance. Since he had left the throne of Zakuul so abruptly, he had not had the time to take his wardrobe with him; Vaylin had destroyed any possessions he’d left behind in a fit of rage at his betrayal. Now, living on a salary and a budget, he had yet to purchase more than a few tunics and trousers, and none were even close to ornate. “Do you think it comes in my size?”

“My jacket? Sure it does, but – don’t take this the wrong way, Arcann – I don’t see you as the popped-collar kind of guy.”

“That’s fair.” Arcann glanced out of the window. His surging fear, spurred by his broken arm, began to subside. The banter always helped take his mind off apprehension. The arm could be fixed. He would only need to wait to return to Odessen, to calm himself, to choose to stave off the anger that had started to boil up from his soul when the two snipers targeted him.

He had to choose to push away the darkness of his old self. He would not let that Arcann take hold again.

In the meantime, he could do nothing but wait for their return to Odessen. Hopefully he could excuse himself from the inevitable debriefing that would follow their arrival. Senya could pass on any crucial information to him.

He chose to wait, meditating with his eyes closed, but he could not clear his mind. He was only able to chase away the darkness from the corners of his thoughts as they ran rampant, stumbling over one another. He and Senya had been instructed to bring back the Alliance spy safe and unharmed. Even if the Empress forgave them, and acknowledged that the spy’s fate had been beyond their control, they still had failed in their mission.

“Do you need help?” murmured Senya softly enough so that Theron would not be able to hear.

He had been projecting in the Force again. Senya could feel his disquiet, and he inwardly berated himself for this weakness.

“No,” Arcann rumbled, not opening his eyes. “I’m fine.”

*****

Music wafted into the corridor from the direction of the laboratory. He did not recognize the song, and the lyrics were in some language that he could not speak. But the beat of the words and instruments seemed infectious. As Arcann entered the lab, he saw a young man in a thick apron dancing to the beat, swaying a set of tongs to the music. Before him, on a stand, some sort of liquid bubbled in a beaker.

In one corner of the lab, it seemed as though someone had let the forests surrounding the compound to simply spill inside. Two young trees stood next to a work table, each in its own clay pot and surrounded by mushrooms of several shapes and colors. Above the table, from the cavernous ceiling of the lab, hung a number of plants in pots, most of them some kind of ivy, the leaves acting as a partial curtain for the workspace. Arcann caught sight of a young woman standing next to the trees, her hand outstretched as she levitated a small potted plant in midair. The pot glowed brilliantly with Force energy; her eyes narrowed with concentration.

But she saw him. She turned her head. Alongside of the left side of her face, Arcann could see deep scars leading from her chin to her hairline, where her brown hair had been shaped into a sensible style. Her eyes grew round with surprise; the pot jerked in the air, starting a rapid descent to the floor. And, with reflexes that could have only been spurred by the Force itself, the woman caught the plant in both hands a few centimeters before its untimely end on the polished rock below. Only a few grains of dirt rained on the floor.

Arcann opened his mouth, intending to apologize to the scientist, but a booming voice cut him off. “Tirall! You’re back. Let’s have a look at that arm. It might be easier to repair if it wasn’t attached to you. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Arcann turned to face Dr. Oggurobb, bobbing his head in greeting. He had left his armor on the shuttle; the undershirt he wore was wet with sweat (and likely smelling of the same, but he had become nose-blind to that fact.) Reaching up, he tugged it over his head without his prosthetic dangling or flopping too much. He abandoned the garment on the edge of a table, the fingers of his right hand unfastening each of the maintenance clips, one after another. The last step was a simple twist of the limb at the bicep; the limb clicked out of the prosthetic joint, beeping softly as it separated. Arcann’s left shoulder ached where his scarred flesh met the cybernetic platform, and he rolled it before placing the arm in Oggurobb’s waiting hands.

One of the damaged wires kicked up an angry spark. Oggurobb startled in surprise, the hutt’s eyes widening. “Stars, this power supply is cut in two! I wouldn’t like to meet the sniper who did this to you. Such incredible precision!”

Arcann felt someone staring at him, and turned toward the scientist with the potted plant. She ducked her head back behind the curtain of ivy, pretending that she hadn’t very obviously been staring at him. He found himself wondering what she had endured, how she had come to bear such scars upon her face, and that coupled with the fact that she had obviously been staring at him – he could see her pale cheeks reddened in the gaps that the ivy left between the bright green leaves – struck him as endearing.

“Can you fix it?” Arcann returned his attention to Oggurobb, tilting up his head to look at the hutt properly.

“Perhaps.” Oggurobb turned the limb in his short arms, so he could see it better. “This isn’t a factory model. This is custom work, isn’t it? I’ll need a series 1000 power supply. I’m certain I don’t have one of those in stock –“

“I have a spare.”

Arcann turned around again. The dark-haired scientist stood behind him, holding the potted plant in one hand. From the short distance between them, he could see that her eyes were green – dark green, a glint of intelligence inside. He saw also the lightsaber hanging on her utility belt, along with a dagger and various pouches, some of them stained and worn.

“Truly? Jovi, you have saved us all.” Oggulrobb balled up a fist and punched it at the ceiling triumphantly. “Arcann, this is Jovi Benning, our resident biologist. Jovi, Arcann.”

“I know who you are.” She gave simple, prim nod, her face not unfriendly, but somewhat guarded. “I order a spare whenever I use it. I don’t want to be caught without.”

“A wise decision.” Arcann allowed his eyes to roam over her strong arms. She wore long robes with a hood; he could see no obvious sign of a prosthetic. But the tight sleeves of her robes, rolled up to the elbows, did not hide the curves and planes of lean, strong muscle. “You have a custom Adascorp limb?”

Jovi raised a curved eyebrow; Arcann realized that he had been caught looking, but thankfully, she did not comment on it. “Mm, two.” She lifted the hem of her robes to the calf. Underneath, two jointed metal feet, complete with toes, hooked into a set of legs crafted not unlike Arcann’s arm.

“Oh.” A sudden thought occurred to Arcann, and it were as if someone had taken a bucket of ice cold water and dumped it on him. When had she sustained her injuries? Had his troops caused them? Had he injured her with his own two hands? He looked into her face, at the scars along the left side – no. She didn’t look familiar. He wasn’t even certain that he had seen her in passing while on Odessen. With a swallow, he recovered himself and his senses, pointing instead to her lightsaber. “You’re a Jedi?”

“Mm-hmm.” She beckoned for him to follow her with a jerk of her head, and he did so, falling into step with her shadow.

“I’ve never met a Jedi who was also a scientist,” Arcann said, his gaze moving instead to the wall of ivy, down to the trees, and to the pot that she placed upon the table.

“That’s because many Jedi on Odessen dedicate themselves to the defense of the Alliance.” Jovi bent down, opening a drawer at eye level, and began to rifle through its contents. “Many Jedi on Tython and in other temples dedicate themselves to learning rather than combat. They tend to stay with the temples, though.”

“I assume your experiments have something to do with the effects of the Force on plants?” Arcann looked between each of the plants, at the colorful flowers, each labelled with neat handwriting. He recognized some of them.

“That’s right.” Jovi slammed the drawer shut and opened a cabinet, the contents of both rattling loudly. “When the greenhouse is built, I’ll be overseeing it, as well. The Empress wants to see us start to produce our own fresh food.”

“An admirable goal.” Arcann rolled his left shoulder again, trying to not wince at the ache. But a slithering sound behind him caused him to turn his head; Oggurobb approached, carrying his prosthetic arm in both hands.

“I designed the greenhouse myself.” Oggurobb gave the arm to Arcann. “Once it is built, it will sustain several thousand of us. Plants from many homeworlds will be grown within – all without fear of introducing evasive species into Odessen’s environment. Imagine having fresh vegetables the entire year!” He moved away and back toward his dais.

Jovi placed a small wooden box on the table before her. “There it is. Now, where did I put my upgrade toolkit –“ she busied herself in the drawers and cupboards once again.

“You are thinking of longterm occupation of Odessen.” The idea brought to Arcann’s mind’s eye the picture of homes covering the hills, fields tilled into every centimeter of flat land – perhaps much later, tall buildings and industry. “A wise idea. Raw materials and food are in short supply since the end of the war. It’s time to produce something.”

“And food is a good place to start.” Jovi placed some slim tools next to the box, then snapped off the top, wiggling out a power supply, complete with a set of new wires. “Do you need for me to install it?”

“No. I’ve got it. Thank you. Do you mind if I use your table?” Arcann found himself looking at her green eyes again, and at her heart-shaped face and wondered quietly why she seemed to be looking at him as if his presence was profoundly disturbing. And then he knew – his presence _was_ profoundly disturbing. Here he was, in the middle of the lab, shirtless – and he was _himself_. It had only been a few months since he had defected to the Alliance.

No one could be granted forgiveness that quickly.

“Sure.” Jovi gave a nod of her head. “This experiment is complete. I needed to check my vines, anyway.” She turned toward a stepstool, picked it up, and carried it over to the wall of vines.

“Thank you.” Arcann set his arm in front of himself, turning it with the palm up. The broken power supply had stopped smoking, and it felt cool to the touch. He took up one of Jovi’s tools and started to remove its housing. He was grateful to be hidden from the door by the long, large, healthy leaves of the vines. Behind this natural curtain, it felt almost like a nature refuge.

Jovi’s footsteps as she ascended the footstool clanked, metal upon metal. She stepped on the hem of her robes, leaned down, and tugged the fabric from underneath her foot. For a moment, as Arcann raised his head, he caught sight of her prosthetic, curving in an artificial calf, rising almost to her knee, where a cybernetic cap not unlike the one at his shoulder met the flesh of her bare knee.

“Did I do that?” The words fell from his lips before he could bite them back.

Jovi looked down at him, her face quizzical. She held a watering can in one hand.

Arcann composed himself, trying to look as though the phrase were intentional. “Your legs. Did you lose them fighting my armies on Tython?”

The stare that bloomed the silence was one that _knew_. One that judged. Arcann swallowed, expecting the answer that he had feared. He had not yet encountered one of his own victims, but he knew that the time would be inevitable. Guilt began to burn in his stomach.

Then, her words came as a breath of almost blissful relief: “No. I was injured when the Empire attacked Tython during the Revanite Conflict.” She looked back to her plants, adjusting some of the long, green tendrils.

The relief turned to nausea. Arcann looked back down at his work, dedicating himself doubly to the task of removing the old power supply. It came out of its casing reluctantly, scraping the pads of his fingers as he pulled it out. With a grunt, he set it on the table, starting the process of replacing it with the new one. The new part smelled faintly of grease and scorched metal.

The music ended. “Ah, yes, my turn to choose,” said Oggurobb from across the room. “Sith opera? Which one?”

“ _The Troubadour and the Darth_.” One of the scientists struck a dramatic pose. “I’ll sing the part of the romantic troubadour –“

“ -if you want to sound like a drunk tauntaun,” said another.

The room erupted in good-natured laughter. Jovi herself chuckled under her breath.

“I don’t know that one.” Arcann only spoke loud enough for himself and Jovi to hear; he slid the new power supply into place and began to attach the new wiring, one after another.

“It’s a love story based on real events,” Jovi said, adding water to another vine’s pot. “A Darth once fell in love with a great musician. The other Darths disapproved, of course. But she couldn’t be separated from him. The musician was so inspired by his lover, that she took the name ‘Darth Muse’. It wouldn’t be a bad story, if it wasn’t full of Imperial propaganda.”

From the music player, the instruments of a symphony orchestra swelled into a mighty overture. The chorus burst into song, setting the opening scene of the opera –

_Upon moody Drommund Kaas the clouds gather;_

_In the third century of the rule of Mighty Vitiate_ -

Arcann dropped the tool he was holding, and it clattered to the ground. Mumbling an apology, he stooped down and picked it up. He dared sneak a look at the rest of the room – it was as if none of them even considered what this lyric might have done to him. His heart raced, and his eyes opened wide, drawing a soft breath at the lyrics that followed –

_Blessed Emperor, his wisdom be praised!_

_His strength and benevolence guide us._

_Look upon your loyal servant here –_

He tilted up his head. Jovi was watching him. But instead of the judgmental expression her face had previously held, her face had gone softer. In the Force, he could feel her sympathy.

Arcann rotated the final screw into place. Then he picked up the arm, aligned its shoulder with the cybernetic disk imbedded into his body, and pressed, hard. There was a satisfying click, followed by a beep, and – oh, the pain that always came with the reconnection of the arm, as nerves reignited and remembered, causing him to pause and grit his teeth until the flash faded. He looked down at his hand, flexing and extending each finger, rolling his wrist, and then pausing to snap the final fastenings into place with his fingers.

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking up from his prosthetic arm and up at Jovi’s face. She was still watching him, and she offered him a small, cautious nod.

He left the lab so quickly that it was hours later before he remembered leaving his shirt behind.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcann's work, and a dream. Contains graphic depictions of violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been ages since my last update - real life happened! Don't worry, this work is not abandoned. I do intend to finish it this summer. At any rate, enjoy!

_What say you, children of Zakuul?_

_We grow._

_Up to the quasars,_

_Crowning our heads with stars._

_What say you, children of Zakuul?_

_We learn._

_More than the histories,_

_Enough to fill galaxies._

_What say you, children of Zakuul?_

_We rule._

_Tomorrow is our own,_

_Sitting strong upon our throne._

  * Emperor Arcann I of Zakuul, _Songs for a New Zakuul_ , 3630 BBY



 

“Again!”

Four children stood in a row, each falling simultaneously in an attack stance with a shout. Each stood before a target dummy. The oldest child, a willowy human girl with short black hair and a deathly pale face, struck her target dummy with a practice sword. The girl next to her – also human and also black-haired and pale skinned, but younger and rounder, lunged at her dummy with a practice quarterstaff. The third and fourth children, both boys, one twi’lek and one zabrak, both attacked their own targets with twin practice swords.

“Maveen, good! Shivawn, you’re dropping your guard still. Tythos, watch that left hand. Ranik, good!” Arcann paced behind them, his hands clasped behind his back. “Again!”

The children attacked, their unified shout echoing in the practice room.

It had started as an idea – the Empress’s request that Arcann teach her children the Zakuulan ways of the Force. Arcann found himself stunned by the proposal – that she would trust him, of all people, with her beloved children. But within a month, two other parents had quietly made inquiries – could their own Force-sensitive children join the practices? Arcann warned them that he would not coddle his students. No, he would not subject his pupils to the punishing, unforgiving training he had endured as a child. But they would learn. They would know the price of dedicating oneself to the Force. They would be the first class of young people that would someday act in the Alliance’s defense.

And one of them would sit on the Eternal Throne someday, as its mighty occupant did not know immortality any more than Arcann himself had. His blue eyes shifted to the slim form of Princess Shivawn as she returned to a position of military-precise attention, her practice sword in one hand, her shoulders squared. Her brows furrowed in an expression of concentration.

“You are the future of the Alliance. The future of Zakuul.” Arcann continued to pace, his voice taking on the dusty echo of a general of troops. “You were born with the talent to defend her people. Now, you must hone yourselves. The time is now. Again!”

Feet shifted forward, and the children attacked with the roars of soldiers twice their ages.

Arcann often found his mind wandering during these lessons. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy them; on the contrary, he looked forward, every single morning, to training the children. But what might the future hold for them all? What would happen as more Force-sensitive children arrived on Odessen? Would he build a school? Seek to recruit more instructors? He knew that he would miss the rapport he had built with the children, getting to know their personalities, choosing practice weapons for each one, even looking forward to the time when each would be presented with their own lightsabers, many years down the line. He had caught himself looking on the holonet for a kyber crystal for Shivawn the previous day; he had to remind himself that it would be years before she would be old enough for a lightsaber.

“Shivawn, Tythos, Ranik – take a knee. Maveen, step forward.” Arcann strode over to the rack that held the practice weapons. Drawing a quarterstaff for himself, he gave it a spin, dropped into the attack position that his students had been attempting, and gave it a few twirling spins. He was not a fan of quarterstaff or lightsaber pike combat, but his students did not need to know this.

Maveen turned toward him, her blue eyes wide, her jaw dropping for a moment before she recovered, pushing her bangs out of her face with her free hand. The other still clutched her own quarterstaff.

“You are eight years old. When I was eight, I was already beating fully grown opponents in the practice arena.” Arcann closed the distance between them with a few strides, his footsteps nearly silent on the practice room’s polished floor. Then, he took a defensive position, holding the quarterstaff across his body. “Attack me. Don’t hold back.”

“Um.” Maveen paled even further, shifting from foot to foot.

_She is different than I was at that age_ , Arcann thought _. I was strong in the Force and treated like an unnecessary spare. I was not anxious to prove myself; I knew of my own power. She is astonished when I look into her sister’s shadow and find her there. I’ll show her what she’s capable of._

“Are you hesitating? You’ve been challenged.” Arcann’s voice became steel even as he hardened his face. Maveen would find no sympathy there – perhaps later, but not at that moment. “You are a princess of Zakuul. The second born. Show your sister who is the better in battle. She can’t keep her guard up. _Attack me_.”

Shivawn exhaled loudly at the admonishment, but the occupants of the room ignored her.

“Alright, then.” Maveen chewed on her lip. Then she took an attack stance, her cry of battle echoing through the cavernous roof of the practice room. She attacked Arcann with the most vigor that an eight-year-old could muster.

She was shorter than he by quite a bit, but her feet proved quicker than he had expected. He did not attack back, but simply parried her, over and over and over, in each direction, watching his student’s young face as he defended himself without so much as raising his heart rate. At first, she appeared frustrated, but then, darkness spread over her face at each successive parry. He could feel her in the Force – first frustrated, then her mind growing clearer, pushing away the anger and doubt. She was starting to figure out how to dip past his defenses.

“Good.” Stepping back lightly on his feet, Arcann put out his hand, palm toward Maveen, a silent gesture ordering her to stop. She did so, her entire face reddening. “You’ve encountered an enemy larger than you and stronger than you. The enemy has the confidence that he can beat you. What do you do?”

“Turn the battlefield against him,” replied Maveen, her breathing coming out in loud huffs. Determination grew in her blue eyes.

Arcann could see, at once, that she was eager to try again.

Then came a voice from the observation area, above, the accent cultured and the tones amused: “An experienced warrior would believe that your teacher would forget to guard his left side. It’s a trap. He is a ferocious fighter who prefers strength over elegance. Draw him into believing that he will kill you with a powerful blow, and slip under his guard.”

“And you, Empress – “Arcann turned to the balcony, offering the speaker a bow of respect, “– use acrobatics to confuse your enemy, and forget to guard your back far, far too often.”

He let that bit of information die in midair, and allowed these children to consider what they had witnessed – two former enemies, now strong allies and friends, discussing how one had analyzed the other’s fighting styles. A smile touched the corners of his lips when he saw that, instead, the former Emperor’s Wrath considered this observation a challenge, albeit a playful one.

Empress Zayetana tapped her scarred fingers against the railing that surrounded the balcony, clearly considering the scene before her, and who she meant to pit against whom in the battle to follow. Then, all at once, she had decided, and leaned on the arm of her chair, sharp chin in one of her bare hands. “Maveen, make me proud,” she said, decisively.

“I will, Mother.” Maveen bounced on her toes once, twirled her quarterstaff as she had been taught, and resumed her attack position. Her blue eyes grew wide just underneath a lock of hair, but then her entire face set into concentration.

And suddenly, Arcann could feel Maveen in the Force, stronger than before –  pure determination, riding on the back of the instinct to protect herself, to protect her mother, her sister – even Arcann himself. He defended against her blows – he would, after all; she was in no way ready to face him at his full strength, but he did not need to be lazy now, and he needed to remain on his toes –

Her left hand pulled free of her quarterstaff, and she let out a yell that seemed to reverberate not in the room, but in the Force itself. Arcann felt it punch him squarely in the chest; in shock, he staggered back, falling into a sitting position. He drew breath, only to see Maveen lunge, swing her quarterstaff through the air, and then – it stopped, mere centimeters from the bridge of his nose.

The determination vanished from Maveen’s face. She stumbled back herself, the quarterstaff clattering from her fingers, landing on the rock below her. “I’m – I’m sorry!” She stammered out.

Zayetana rose from her chair, a pale hand pressed to her chest, eyes wide with astonishment.

Arcann looked into the terrified face of the child before him. For a moment, instead of Maveen, he could see himself – young, clad in his white tunic, head shaven, bruises covering almost available centimeter of visible flesh. He would not be cross with this child, not when she had done exactly what she had been encouraged to do. No.

Instead, he sat up, freeing his hands from the task of propping up his body, and applauded her.

The clapping caught on – the remainder of the children took the cue from him that what had transpired was acceptable, their cheers mixing with their own applause. And, as Arcann stood up, he saw that Zayetana had joined in, and that she started to descend the metal staircase toward the floor.

“Well done, Maveen. All of you – to your afternoon meal. Go on, now.” Arcann crossed the room to the weapon rack, putting away the quarterstaff. “Tomorrow, we’ll start our work at sunrise. Rest well, and enjoy your lessons.”

Turning toward the Empress, he watched as she paused to run her pale fingers through the hair of each of her daughters in turn, offering Maveen a squeeze on a shoulder and a smile. Then, in silence, she waited for the children to depart before she spoke again: “I had a feeling that Maveen would be my more powerful one.”

“It’s appropriate.” Arcann closed the distance between himself and Zayetana, pausing to snatch up a towel as he moved. This he used to dab the sweat from his face before draping around his shoulders. “She should be pressed into the Havoc Guard, when she’s old enough. She’ll never be jealous of her older sister.”

“Bah.” Zayetana waved a hand and shook her head. “Maveen is the mild sort – nothing like her father or I, for that matter. She’s not jealous of Shivawn. She would appreciate the sentiment, though. All children want to feel important.”

Arcann nodded his head, glancing toward the door of the practice room, to make sure that none of the children had lingered behind to overhear their discussion. “Was there something you wanted to discuss? Or did you come to watch the girls?”

“I have a favor I wanted to ask of you.” Zayetana clasped her hands behind her back, her head tilted up so that she could meet Arcann’s gaze.

“Of course.” He didn’t even need to consider the matter. “Anything you ask, I’ll do it.”

“This one you might consider to be below your skill.” She exhaled, loudly, before speaking again. “Oggurobb wants to send one of his scientists to survey the site for the new greenhouse. He wants to perform tests on the water and soil and such – it will take a few days. He asked Bey’wan to send a few soldiers to guard the scientists, but they’ll be out on training exercises for the next two weeks.”

“You need for me to guard the scientists.” Arcann nodded his head. “It’s not a problem.”

“It would mean a great deal to me.” The relief was plain in her yellow eyes. “Oggurobb said he’d be willing to schedule the tests in the afternoons, so it would not conflict with your teaching duties. Think of it as a respite. Your presence will be more of a token than anything else. You’re not likely to see anything but a few ground rodents. Bring a book.”

Arcann rumbled a chuckle. “I can think of a few I’ve been meaning to read.”

“Oggurobb said he’d send along the details tonight. He’ll be pleased.” Zayetana started toward the door, looking over her shoulder as she walked, her long grey robes trailing over the rocky floor in an almost fluid manner.

_As long as he doesn’t make me listen to any Sith opera_ , Arcann thought, his mood tinging with darkness at the memory.

He realized that the Empress was staring at him, and that she must have felt his mood shift from within the Force. “Where are you going next?” He inquired, struggling to change the subject.

“I’m going to have lunch in my quarters, and I resolve not to look at any requests, inquiries, or entreaties from the Alliance for the next hour, at least.” His former enemy beckoned toward him, smiling slightly. “Come. The kitchen always delivers far too many sandwiches. Let’s catch up.”

*****

_The dream came as it always did – he was in battle, he was fighting alongside Thexan, and when he turned, he saw a robed figure charging, howling a high-pitched scream fit to chill Arcann’s blood, and then he swung with his lightsaber. Arcann tried to parry this wild attack, but instead the lightsaber swung horizontally, severing him in half at the waist, flinging him into the dust of Korriban and in a pool of his own blood –_

_Pool? There was no pool. Blood sunk into the dirt and ash and sand and became mud and stained his hands and face and matted his left eye shut. He could scream as the darkness closed in on him – he would die this way, but not quickly, no, he would suffer every moment that his organs shut down, with every heartbeat that searched in screaming seconds for absentee organs and veins._

_He looked up at Thexan, but Thexan did not look at him. When Arcann screamed his name – openly, loudly, every syllable a screech of agony, Thexan appeared almost calmer. He looked at the robed figure, blinked, then crumpled as a puppet might, once its strings were cut away from the supports, into a pile of armor and skin and lifeless bone._

_“Failure.” That voice, that cold voice, never regarding the dying, writhing half-body at his feet, spoke up from the hood. “Die alone. Die unmourned. Die unforgiven.”_

_“Father!” Arcann screamed. On instinct, he tried to flex legs that were no longer there, tried to rise up on knees that had been scattered with the rest of him, anything to try to grab on to the hem of the figure’s robes. But the boiling, seething pain encompassed him, covering him like a blanket – and instead he called out for the Goddess, beginning to beg for his death –_

Arcann staggered out of bed before he was even fully awake, his face wet with tears, the sheets winding around him, sticking to his sweat-slick skin. He fell to his knees and buried his face in the mattress, his breathing hard and uncontrolled. He became aware of the fact that he was not on Korriban, but in his private apartment and, even though his arm screamed in torment, pulsing with every heartbeat, he was safe. He allowed himself a respite, to sob into his arms for only a moment or two, before he adjusted his position and sat with his legs bent, his aching arm in his lap.

Every physician that had attended to him, both immediately after his injury on Korriban and in the years to follow, told him that this phantom pain was normal and expected. It would always come and go. His body would know the pain of a limb that no longer existed; all he could do was to manage the pain as best as he could. On the worst days, he found his way into the infirmary for an injection and a short rest.

But in the early hours of the day, he could manage to kneel, strong legs tucking beneath him, and he started reigning in himself, bit by sweat-slick and tearstained bit. Scrubbing his right hand over his face, he unwound the sheet from his middle, leaving himself naked. Yet, the small apartment with its solitary, high window did not feel chilled. There was no reason to clothe himself; there was something serene about bathing his scarred body in the silver moonlight.

He flexed his left hand, curling his fingers, and letting them ultimately rest on one of his bare thighs. The cybernetic limb felt pressure but no pain. Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes, focusing on the pain itself. He found the Force in the room, flowing through him, dwelling around him, a sea which permeated his body, malleable enough to drench the pain wherever it spiked, to bleed through agony until it dissipated into the rising purple rays of a new day’s sun.

Arcann opened his eyes. The night had ended. There was no more time for sleeping; the children would be expecting him in the practice room within the hour. He stood up, stripped the sheets from his bed, and tossed them in the nearest laundry hatch. Then he showered, shaved, dressed for the day, and departed, locking the door behind him.

The compound was already alive with activity in the early hours- then again, it never truly slept. Some of the more essential personnel lived together in small apartments along one corridor, a new addition that had come in the past year. Someday, there would be homes at the foot of the cliff, hugging the rock for protection, but no progress had been made at all in these endeavors. For now, the citizens of Odessen, whether they had been fortunate enough to be placed in one of the apartments, or if they still slept in bunks in the massive barracks on another cavern, joked about their cave-dwelling status. Waking up with pebbles on one’s chest and dirt in the sheets had become a way of life with the Alliance. Even the Empress and her two daughters were not immune; even they shared a room, with their beds separated by slim screens for a modicum of privacy.

“Good morning,” said a soft voice behind Arcann.

Jovi approached him – simply the last person he had expected to see that morning. She was dressed in green – and oh, how nice it looked with the color of her eyes, he quietly noted as his heart thumped a few loud beats – and carried a pile of white cloth in her hands.

“I wasn’t sure where you lived,” she said, her voice apologetic. “You left your shirt in the lab yesterday. It smelled terrible, so I washed it for you. Here.” She extended the folded pile toward him.

Arcann wasn’t sure what part of her greeting to react to: her honesty, or her kindness. The fingers of his right hand reveled in the warmth of the freshly-pressed garment. “That’s very kind,” he finally managed, certain that he had stumbled over the syllables. “ _You’re_ very kind. You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

Their eyes met. Arcann felt a pat on his shoulder and a muttered greeting; he caught sight of Lana passing him by, her pale face appearing exhausted, her yellow eyes ringed with dark circles.

“Well, it was the least I could do – look – “Jovi glanced behind her, waiting until Lana was out of earshot before speaking again: “I work with a lab full of people from different worlds – Empire, Republic, Zakuul, independent worlds and such. They weren’t trying to slight you when they played that opera. I don’t even know if they remembered that you were there.”

Arcann found himself surprised again; the lie fell on his tongue before he realized it: “I wasn’t offended. It’s alright. You owe me no apology, Jovi.”

“Ah. Well, good.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she nodded her head. “I’m glad.”

And then it became uneasy, the silence that followed. Jovi shifted in place; Arcann wondered if he should be the one to dismiss her. Aric Jorgan filed past, stifling a yawn, and gave the two of them an acknowledging nod before heading off toward the War Room.

Arcann took that as a cue to depart. He draped the shirt over one shoulder, feeling its warmth through his tunic. “I should be going. Tell Oggurobb that I will meet his scientist at the forest lift at noon.”

“Wait, what?” Jovi stepped back in surprise. “You’re the one that’s going to guard me while I do my experiments?”

“Guard you?” Arcann could not help but smile at this strange turn of events. “It seems so,” he replied.

“Well, then.” Jovi rolled her shoulders back, her hands falling to her sides. Her voice took on a colder, more professional tone. “I’ll be carrying a lot of experiments with me. Must set everything up today before sundown.” She hesitated, as if she had no clue how to end their discussion. “I’ll see you then,” she managed before heading in the direction of the laboratory.

Arcann gave a shake of his head, his smile shifting into light confusion mixed with delight. It all seemed so strange to his sleep-deprived mind.

Strange, but good.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans and poetry in the forests of Odessen.

Three

_No sky no end no floor at all_

_Repentance crawls upon the walls._

_No dawn drowns the path evident_

_Darkness clings to the penitent._

_He pushes to great blue skies’ ends_

_Knowing no rest lies in amends._

_Every day he rises again,_

_Knowing no rest lies in amends._

  * Prince Arcann Tirall, _Songs of a Warrior Poet_ , 3631 BBY



Odessen wasn’t a single-biome planet by any stretch of the imagination, and it had yet to show any signs of any civilization at all, besides a few old campsites from passers-through, perhaps a few felled trees here and there, and a smattering of stone cairns. Arcann had taken time to strike out on his own, using his personal shuttle (which he had offered to the Alliance but was allowed to keep) on day trips in all directions. He had sighted a beautiful beach made of stones not unlike transparisteel and every bit as sharp as the shards, where the ocean licked the edges of the rocks and smoothed them out. A mountain range lay beyond to the south, topped with pure white snow and what appeared to be a dormant volcano. The forests also met some rolling hills with grass so green that it hurt Arcann’s eyes to look upon it, where a kind of herding animal wandered in great groups, grumbling as they munched on small plants.

The forests near the base teemed with life, some of it just out of range of Arcann’s hearing. Small amphibians scuttled away from the path and into the nearby brush. He caught sight of a green bird, nearly invisible against the bobbing leaves on a tree, its head cocked in curiosity at the sight of himself and Jovi as they stepped into the clearing.

“All of this is going to be gone within the next few years.” Jovi set her pack on the ground next to a fallen log, bending over to unzip the top. “It’s part of the so-called Odessen Colonization Project. There’s going to be some small homes built into the rock face, along with the greenhouse. Priority will be given to families.”

“Those homes will be difficult to defend in the event of an attack.” Arcann tilted up his head, trying to imagine the nearby forest without trees, with the sounds of conversation, the clinking of tools, and the binary chatter of droids.

“I agree.” Jovi spread a stained cloth on the ground, and began to unpack pieces of equipment that Arcann could not identify, one by one. “It’s a problem they’re working on, or so they say. Lord Beniko said that they should have an air defense shield of some kind.”

Arcann remembered then that he was supposed to be guarding Jovi from wild animals, not enjoying the scenery. He began to prowl the edge of the clearing, peering into any well of shadows that the trees might cast, but in the end, he saw and heard nothing more but a few small animals, none of which seemed to consider himself nor Jovi a target worth pursuing.

Satisfied with his cursory examination of the area, Arcann turned toward Jovi. He saw her kneeling by the muddy banks of a small pond, filling vial after vial with its clear water. Her green trousers clung to her legs and the strong muscles of her thighs; he saw that she had chosen to wear a set of simple yet rough slippers over her prosthetic feet.

The silence felt odd in the Force; Arcann clasped his hands behind his back and dwelled on it, then realized the reason – Jovi was uncomfortable with his presence. She was doing the polite thing – busying herself with her work so that she did not have to look at him directly – but he could feel her disquiet as strongly as the ground beneath him.

“What brought you to the Alliance?” He inquired, moving to sit upon the fallen log next to Jovi’s equipment.

And then, in the silence that followed, one that turned from a tingle into a full-blown itch, did he know that he had chosen the wrong topic to breach.

Jovi took the vials in her hands, cradling them between her fingers. Her green eyes became a calm challenge. “My workshop was the primary producer of fresh food for Asylum for four years. Then, you and your sister destroyed Asylum. I arrived on Odessen with the rest of the refugees.”

The quiet condemnation in every serene syllable of her words set Arcann’s lunch to burn in his stomach. He furrowed his brow and looked away from her, searching for a response to her words, and ultimately finding none that fit. Expressing regret, as per usual, remained a map of hidden asteroids and quivering, swallowing event horizons.

“I can say nothing that will reverse the damage I did to your home.” Arcann held her gaze, unblinking, injecting his regret into the Force for her to feel, should she look for it.

“We can agree on that.” Around her bottles, Jovi’s knuckles grew white as she spoke. Then, she drew a soft breath, knelt down, and placed the bottles, one by one, in her satchel. She did not speak again until she looked up from her work: “I concur with the Empress: your actions will speak for you. Words will fail you, no matter what.”

He caught the quiver in her voice. She was not afraid of him – no. That was for certain. The Jedi rarely gave in to fear, and Jovi was no exception. And yet, he felt something else – uncertainty. It was as if Jovi stood on a training beam, wobbling, nearly giving into gravity and the humiliation of a fall.

He could not, however, let one point lay unchallenged, and he spoke to it: “You’re wrong about one thing: words _can_ fail us. It is their arrangement that is our responsibility. Using them properly – omitting inappropriate and trite words, adding others – that takes skill.”

Jovi stood up. It was as if she had forgotten about her work, and he, without a doubt, had her attention. “True,” she said, simply, clasping her arms behind her back.

Arcann rose up and paced the length of the small clearing. “For instance, I could apologize for what I’ve done. But in Galactic Common, we use the same words to express regret for…well, everything.” He became aware of his own voice, how muted it sounded among the trees, how the birds around them had hushed at his very tones. Even the small animals had stilled in the grass around him. “If I were to drop one of your bottles of pond water and shatter it, I would say ‘I’m sorry’. It would be acceptable. Bottles can be replaced easily.” He gestured at the pond of clear water. “There is plenty of water to spare. And yet, those words are insufficient for my remorse for the destruction of Asylum. We both agree on this point.”

Jovi remained in place, in peace. Arcann expected to find her impatient, but instead, she seemed curious. Receptive. “We do,” she replied.

He paused in front of her, two arms’ lengths away – acceptable for quiet words, acceptable to make a point, but without infringing on her space. No. He had infringed enough. Within him, even as his mind filled with memories of screams and smoke and words that he himself had cobbled together, her calmness seemed to rest against his. It was an unusual configuration of emotion.

“Then,” he murmured, still holding her gaze. “How is this?” Swallowing – for what? Courage? A misplaced need for her approval? – he tilted his head back, looked instead to the leafy tops of trees, and recited:

_“No sky no end no floor at all_

_Repentance crawls upon the walls._

_No dawn drowns the path evident_

_Darkness clings to the penitent._

_He pushes to great blue skies’ ends_

_Knowing no rest lies in amends._

_Every day he rises again,_

_Knowing no rest lies in amends.”_

Arcann couldn’t look at Jovi. He felt her in the Force – a choke of emotion matched only by his own. He had never spoken those words out loud. He had read them, of course – many times through the passing years. He had heard other people read them – in tea houses, caf bars, even on a holo program or two. But somehow, hearing his own voice shape meter and syllable ended in a full stop once a lump formed in his throat.

When Jovi spoke, her own words were shaped by quiet awe: “Could you say that again?”

She wanted to hear it again. Well, he would say it: and say it as many times as he needed to, in order for the point to be properly driven forward. He gathered his courage and looked into her green eyes. This time, he could see the thoughts there, even as he moved through the meter in his rolling, deep voice.

When he finished, she faltered, her lips forming a silent word or two before she managed some out loud: “That’s lovely. I’ve never read any Zakuulan poetry. Who wrote that?”

Arcann let his hands fall to his sides, lifting his chin ever so slightly. “I did.”

Jovi’s reaction was immediate: brow furrowed, though the shock in her face remained. “You’re telling me that you’re a poet, on top of everything else?”

“Is it so surprising?” Arcann inquired, carefully watching her face, immersing himself in the obvious thought process taking place behind her eyes. “You are a Jedi and a scientist. You have your dedication to the Force, and your personal interests in the process of life. Why would I not have interests too banal to mention in an Alliance dossier?”

“Because that’s not banal.” Jovi gave a shake of her head, furrowing her brow. “Eight syllables per line, in addition to a rhyme. Do you have other poems?”

Arcann pointed at Jovi’s satchel. “Do you have a datapad?”

It was as if Jovi had shaken herself loose from a controlling, invisible hand. “Uh, yeah,” she mumbled, stooping down to pull one out of her pack. She extended it toward Arcann.

Taking the pad, Arcann logged into the holonet using one of his many aliases, navigated to the extended Zakuulan public information network, and swiftly moved to one of the more popular book warehouses. He used his own name as a search parameter, skipped the two biographies written during his five years as Emperor, and purchased the three poetry books instead. A click downloaded each. He swiftly cleared his bank information from Jovi’s database, then his alias, and returned the pad to Jovi.

She huffed an incredulous breath as she looked down at the datapad. “You’re a published poet. I…” Looking up, Jovi pressed a hand to her breastbone. “And you did _not_ have to buy me all of your books.”

Arcann tilted his head. Inwardly, he enjoyed her incredulousness. “Consider it a repayment for your battery.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but every two weeks, a group of us meet in the cantina and share our poetry. I…” She paused, wincing and rolling her eyes; an expression clearly meant to mock her own suggestion rather than him. “You’re clearly above our level if you’re published. We’re amateurs, and some of our poetry is awful –“

She was inviting him to a poetry circle. This was, indeed, too much for Arcann to process all at once, so, he had to parse it in his thoughts, piece by piece. First: there was no way under stars and nebula that he would feel comfortable at a poetry club. Not then, not ever. But he didn’t wish to hurt Jovi’s feelings at what was clearly an offhand offer.

“I don’t think I’d fit –“ he began.

“ – no, of course not,” Jovi interrupted him, her cheeks inflaming. Holding the datapad, she moved away for a moment, looked down, and then seemed to come to herself: “And I have experiments to set up. I’ll read these later.” She returned to her pack, put the datapad inside, and pulled out a piece of equipment that looked like an old, weather-beaten camera.

Why did his every interaction with her have to be this way? Arcann stepped back and away from her, making his rounds again, their shared embarrassment so thick in the Force that it almost physically burned. And then, he answered himself within seconds: because he saw embarrassment with a new light. His humiliation was still personal, but more private at the same time. Because there would be no violent consequences for having an awkward interaction with a shamed Emperor – no, a man, an exile, a nobody. Would he have ever met Jovi if he were still Emperor? No. Unlikely.  
  
But they had crossed paths. She had said as such. And yet, he could not recall her at all, a Jedi with a slim figure and lovely features, one that dressed and acted so unremarkably but had managed to captivate his attention.  
  
And he was completely at odds with why he needed her approval for anything. Was it because she, like, him, knew the pain of losing a limb and the life that followed? The constant pain? The agonizing days, the missing of lost flesh and nerves? She had said that the people of Asylum depended on her for fresh food; Arcann, too, knew dependence. He knew what it was like to give to the desperate, and he himself had been desperate.

But at the end of it all, he found himself searching for her approval.

He circled into a pool of shadow and saw only a small reptile scattering into the grass, dodging the progress of his rough boots. “How do the Jedi forgive?” He inquired, not looking in her direction.  
  
He heard Jovi grunt and turned around, a bolt of worry pressing into him. Did he allow her to be attacked when he was selfishly looking inward? No. She was simply scaling a tree, her slippered durasteel feet finding purchase on the bark as she hoisted herself up on a limb, which she then straddled, the bark digging into her thighs. At first, Arcann could not see why she did this – amusement tumbled about him with the mere concept that serious Jovi might have done this for fun – but then, he saw her bind the camera she had been carrying with a length of cord.  
  
And, once it was secure, she spoke, breathless from her ascent and resulting work: “One moment at a time. It is a choice we make, on our guard, watching how serious the guilty one is concerning his repentance.” Her use of the pronoun was a deliberate choice, and Arcann knew it, though she did not look at him. Rather, she stared through the leaves and out at the hillside beyond. “We will see how much your good intentions are worth,” she added, her voice quiet and, Arcann found, uncertain.

“A fair answer,” he said. And, it was, and all he could ask for.

Jovi moved her legs onto the same side, slipping off the tree limb with both hands extended, using the Force to slow her fall until she landed safely on the ground. She moved in silence to her equipment, shouldering her satchel before she stood up straight, regarding him with her bright blue eyes.

Arcann, too, looked her in the eye. He saw behind her gaze a certain dichotomy; her presence in the Force reminded him of the same. She was not afraid of him, yet she was afraid of much. He was not afraid of her, but he was afraid of the creeping unknown, losing control of his body, losing control of his thoughts, being weak, being useless. He saw the edge of the cliff below which lay the man he used to be, crawling through blood mixed with Korriban sands. Did she, also, know the same fear?  
  
“Come,” she said, turning away and heading back for the compound. “It’s getting dark.”

******

Arcann’s room did not have a holoterminal, but he was always welcome to use the one in the war room, provided that it was not being used for official business.

He waited until after dinner to make his inquiry, a time in which most people either took evening walks around the compound, retired to bed early, or seated themselves in the cantina for whatever cobbled-together entertainment the Alliance could manage and a few home-brewed drinks.

He took his evening meal alone, as he always did, but never ceased in his thoughts of Jovi and the turn of events of that afternoon. Even as he walked toward the war room, he found himself questioning what he was about to do. Was it crossing a boundary? Was it creepy? Would he have done this when he was Emperor?

Yes. Yes, he would have. Yes, it did wobble on a boundary between the safe and the invasive. But he could not stop himself from settling into the holoterminal. Knowing very well that he would be locked out of Odessen’s personnel files, he instead put Jovi’s name into a holonet search engine and chose the first result.

“Journal of Force Studies,” he said as quietly as he could manage without whispering. “Begin playback.”

A holographic version of Jovi appeared on the desktop before him. “In this presentation, I will discuss the results of the experiments performed on Coruscant within the past year. Fifty root vegetable units were treated with water from Manaan and exposed to high doses of –“

“Exit playback.” Arcann shook his head. “Studies of the Light Side, third entry, begin playback.”  
  
Jovi’s figure changed. Now, her hair appeared shorter, and she wore a set of tailored robes.

“In this presentation, I will discuss the results of my experiments performed on Balmorra over the past six months,” the holographic form of Jovi said. She tilted her head. “Balmorra’s Force composition is, according to the studies performed by Jedi Master Cornelius Van, thirty-two percent dark, sixty-eight percent –“

“Exit playback,” Arcann said. He exhaled slowly, scanning down the long list of journals, shaking his head. Jovi had made many presentations about her work; none of them suited his interests, and none of them he would have understood, anyway. He knew little of biology, especially advanced studies.

After the academic journals, however, came a declassified report from Havoc squad, dated six years beforehand.

Arcann’s left hand hovered over the keyboard. He was familiar with some of these declassified reports – the Empire and the Republic had each their share, most innocuous, declassified for historical purposes. He glanced over his shoulder – he saw Admiral Aygo examining a map, and Theron Shan in the midst of a private holocall with a small holographic figure that Arcann could not immediately identify.

Returning to his work, Arcann lowered the sound of the terminal with a press of a button, then murmured, “Begin playback.”

A familiar figure flashed into view next to the keyboard – General Gavinara Hern, commander of Havoc Squad. Arcann had never personally served with her – the new Havoc Guard tended to run strikes against the Heralds of Zildrog on their own or in two-person teams.  
  
“General Garza, the damage done to Jedi Temple on Tython is considerate.” The General stood at ease, her hands behind her back.  “The complex is a total loss. Some fifty Jedi are dead and nearly a hundred are injured, some critically. We were unable to take any prisoners from the attacking Sith armies. I have dispatched a team to transport two Jedi directly to surgical hospitals on Coruscant – Casica Fal and Joveaux Benning. Both lost limbs during the attack and require extensive surgery.” She sighed, bowing her head in a gesture that looked like shame. “It is said that Darth Tempest, otherwise known as Lord Zayetana, was at the head of the Sith Forces. Unfortunately, she nor any of her associates were anywhere to be found –“

“Pause playback,” Arcann said abruptly.

General Hern’s strong, armored form froze in place.

Arcann slipped a hand beneath his chin, his thoughts freezing in his head for a long moment before he began to fit the pieces together, one after another. This was exactly what he was looking for, without even knowing it. The Empress had once been the head of the armies that destroyed the temple on Tython. Even if Zayetana – once his enemy and now his friend – had not personally cut off Jovi’s legs, she was responsible. And yet, here was Jovi, serving under a former enemy. What a strange galaxy it was. What an admirable heart she had – so very alien to him, so forgiving and tender, to allow herself to do such a thing.  
  
Arcann closed the session and rose up, but he found himself rooted to the spot, staring into a wall. Jovi was like her plants – rooted on many worlds, and, no matter the circumstances, sprouting up to the nearest sun, dwelling in the power of the Force.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of terrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who lives with anxiety and anxiety attacks, this chapter was difficult to write, especially for me to describe Jovi's anxiety attacks as similar to mine. (Obviously, this is a warning that this chapter contains descriptions of PTSD, anxiety disorders, and anxiety attacks.)

Chapter Four

_Of all my possessions_

_You are the least mine._

_The akk dog on the leash_

_Wagging tail joyfully at praise_

_Snapping jaws on the flung stick_

_Resting peacefully on my lap_

_Until you break the collar_

_Run run run wild into the shredding blades_

_Ducking under the numbing dark blanket_

_I cannot give you away you fearful thing_

_Trapped in bone and craving sunshine_

_You traitor growth and damp companion_

_You_

_(my)_

_Mind._

  * Prince Arcann Tirall, _Songs of a Warrior Poet_ , 3631 BBY



A crash jerked Arcann awake.

He sat in bed for several seconds, blinking sleepily in the semidarkness. Had he overslept? Oh no. Half-awake, he pushed himself out of bed, staggered, and checked the time on the chronometer. No, he was a good fifteen minutes off from his usual awakening time. In the partial darkness, with the haze of sleep still on him, Arcann assumed that whatever had awoken him wasn’t worth investigating. After all, the Odessen compound was constantly at work, no matter the time of day. Some missions lasted more than a few hours, necessitating evening or early morning departures or arrivals. In the Odessen compound, one had to get used to sleeping with some noise.

Turning on the lights in his tiny apartment, Arcann started across the room, rotating his left arm at the shoulder, wincing at the usual stiffness and aching protest that followed. He reached for his practice tunic, and slid it over his head.

A second crash sounded as though something very large and heavy impacted the cave wall against which Arcann’s small bed stood.  
  
Frowning deeply, he reached for his lightsaber, clasped it on his belt, pulled on his trousers and boots as quickly as he could manage, and departed his apartment. Even as he closed the door, he heard a shout in some language that he did not know, followed by a third sound that, at a closer range, sounded like wood snapping, splitting, then making contact with the ground below. Was someone felling trees? Arcann frowned deeply, and then the expression grew horrified, his eyes widening as it occurred to him exactly this should not be happening.

Jovi’s experiments.

No.

He took off at a run, all remnants of sleep flying into the wind he left behind. Once outside, he beheld the horror of the peaceful pond and clearing that he and Jovi had occupied mere hours before. Several bothans stacked what was left of her gear in a tangled pile as they turned to address a number of fallen trees, ordering droids to stack and process the fresh wood. The smell of wood chips and overturned soil filled the air as blades began to grind, angry birds cackling their offense into the new dawn.  
  
“What in the Goddess’s name is this?” Arcann roared above the din, his heart racing even as he came to a complete stop.

A twi’lek whose name he did not know looked up from a datapad. “Empress’s orders. Construction of the greenhouse is to begin immediately. We have to clear the land in a kilo –“  
  
“You destroyed Master Jovi’s work!” It had been months, so very long, since Arcann had felt this enraged. His hands shook as he curled them into fists. He could only guess how important this work had been to the Jedi. “The Empress allowed her to run the environmental impact experiments in the first place! This work cannot be replicated!”

It was then that he heard a soft cry of horror. He turned to see Jovi sweeping over to the pile of mangled equipment, her rumpled robes quickly staining in the freshly-turned dirt. Strands of her short brown hair stuck up in odd clumps, as if she had not bothered to arrange it before she departed her quarters.

“My workers weren’t told that there were Jedi…things…running in the area.” The twi’lek foreman shook his head. “You got a problem with it? Take it up with the Empress.”

“Why did you do this?” Jovi’s horror turned on the foreman, though in much softer and peaceful tones than Arcann. “This equipment is one-of-a-kind. I developed it for my work. It cannot be replaced easily.”

“And I’m sorry about that, Master Jedi.” The foreman, in response, matched Jovi’s tones. “Look, because you’re a Jedi, I’ll tell my men to hold off –“

He was cut off by a crash so loud that it left Arcann’s stronger right ear aching from the sound. Dust clouded the morning air and birds screamed even as another tree met with the ground in a pile of twigs and soon-to-be-cut timber.

The foreman turned around and toward the bothans running the wood-cutting droid. “HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!” He called out.

But it was Jovi’s reaction that caught Arcann’s attention. She was frozen in place, her eyes trained on a large, smooth boulder. She did not move, save for the rise and fall of her chest and the occasional slow blink of her eyes. He followed her gaze, expecting to see a piece of her equipment lying crushed on the rock, or perhaps some kind of small reptile from the disappearing forest. But there was nothing there.

However, in the Force, he felt from her an overwhelming wave, towering and dark, of fear.

“Tell you what,” the Foreman said to Jovi, heedless of her silent distress. “I’ll risk my skin and go have a chat with Lord Beniko about this. I’m not gonna be the one to wake up the Empress with this. See you.” He departed the clearing, trotting into the base.

The rest of the crew took seats on the various fallen logs, some chatting while others pulled out datapads. The droids continued to beep quietly, but did not touch any of the logs, fallen or cut.

Arcann realized, at once, that he could not keep Jovi in this place. He had to lead her somewhere else – and a look at the blank look on her face told him that she was unable to make that decision on her own. He turned to Jovi, holding out both of his hands. His rage vanished, a knot forming in his throat. He was aware that his fingers trembled, even the cybernetic ones. “Do you want to go for a walk? You don’t need to say anything. Give me your hands.” He tried to keep his voice steady, calm, wishing that he had an ounce of the control that Jovi had exhibited in the past. He did not need to rage now – rage might make this situation worse.

She took his hands but did not meet his gaze. She simply followed, her smaller hand in his, which he found to be rough and strong at the same time, the skin chapped, matching his many calluses in texture. He led her forward and past the piles of wood chips and fallen logs, through the trees, and down into the valley. He glanced back only to see that she did not stumble over stones or roots, then up at her face without lingering too long. At first, she just stared straight ahead, her eyes blank and unseeing. Then, after awhile, she looked down at the ground, cheeks burning with unmistakable shame.  
  
Letting go of his hand, Jovi moved past him and he stopped, only watching and in silence. She paused at the banks of the creek, her shoulders square beneath her rumpled robes, her hair still unkempt from sleep.

Arcann cleared his throat. He could hear the birds settling in the trees, some still squawking in offense, but other settling into lovely, quiet melodies that soothed the raging giant within his veins. In his mind, he struggled for the proper words. Should he quote his poetry to her? No. His compositions would win no arguments here.

He shifted from foot to foot, then spoke to her slender back covered in its crumpled fabric, the color of the dirt that she worked in, that her plants took their nourishment from, and its life.

“When I lost my arm on Korriban -” he blurted out, every bit the young man in that moment, and not a former leader of a galactic power. He composed himself, drawing his power from within, and cast aside his doubt. He clothed himself, instead, in honesty. “After the battle, I found myself plagued by terrors that I could not control. Thexan, my brother, he could feel them. He did not have them himself – it came from me. Nightmares. Moments of doubt – not just minor uncertainty, but horror about things I could not control. I lashed out. I raged.”  
  
“You were healed by the Voss.” There was a serenity in Jovi’s voice that unnerved him further. “Not all of us have that sort of opportunity.”

“Yes and no.” Arcann caught his shoulders tensing with such force that his left side began to pulse with agony. He rolled his shoulders, one after another, and slipped his hands behind his back. “I can’t really put words to it. The best way I can describe it is this: my mind is a machine. The Voss pressed its reset button. They did not wipe away my memories. They did not chase away the terrors. They gave me another chance to navigate through them. I am learning to live with them in peace, not in anger and violence.”

Jovi bowed her head. Arcann could see her features in profile, the scars in lines down her left cheek, her lush lips downturned. “There is no emotion, there is only peace. I took myself away from the struggles of the Jedi to focus on my own. I put myself among my plants, in the arms of science. Science simply is. It tells nothing but the truth. And yet, the terrors still strike me. They come every time I hear or see something that reminds me of the Battle of Tython.”

“Jovi-“ Arcann began.

“ – There is no ignorance, there is only knowledge,” she interrupted him with a voice more forceful than he thought could erupt from her chest. “And yet nothing I have tried, not even science, have sped away my nightmares. There is no passion, there is serenity: in what? You think me serene, like all Jedi you’ve met?” She turned to him, her hands curling into fists. “There is no chaos, there is harmony – I live with my mind in a maelstrom that I can no more control than the weather. There is no death, there is only the Force – the Force lets me live, asks me to reconcile what is in my mind, and offers me no answers that any experiment can provide, any Master can quote me from a book, any meditation can enlighten. _I hate my mind_.”

“You’re allowed,” Arcann said a bit louder than he dared, wincing for the space of an instant at his tone of voice.

Jovi didn’t seem to notice. “No, I’m not. I’m supposed to give over to the Force.”

“Did your own grandmaster not tell the Empress that the old ways were void?” Arcann pointed back at the compound, in the direction of the throne room. “Why do you still believe in them when they’ve been found to be useless?”

Jovi hesitated. She glanced in the direction that Arcann pointed, then back at him. “Alright.  Let’s say that the Zakuulan way of the Force is the correct one. Let’s say that you’re right. Let’s say that tens of thousands of years of study into the mysteries of the Jedi’s path are wrong –“

“It wasn’t wrong,” Arcann murmured, taking a step toward her. “The Jedi studied the galaxy as they understood it –“

“Do not interrupt me again.” Jovi held out a hand in a gesture for Arcann to stop.

He swallowed, hard, again finding himself out of his element. If anything, he had wanted to calm Jovi, not further upset her. “I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head for the first time since they had departed the compound.

She began to wring her hands as she paced back and forth on the muddy banks. Arcann noticed that she wore no shoes; her cybernetic feet splashed on the muddy banks and further dirtied the hem of her rumpled robe, but she did not seem to notice. “It is as I felt all along: the Force is neither dark nor light. The Force has its own will. The Empress said that she was told that the strength comes from within. I thought her misguided but…perhaps I should have listened. Perhaps I should have committed myself to –“ She put her fingers to her lips and made a soft noise in her throat. “ – this is wrong. All wrong. And yet, the Force wills me to…it is telling me to believe in something that is not helping me. Or, I have been so stubborn to believe in rules that no longer apply to this galaxy.”  
  
“A suggestion, if I may.” Arcann spoke only after he was certain that Jovi had finished speaking, and with a slow approach toward her. He did not want to chance to irritate her further. “You were just struck by terrors. You should give yourself time to heal.”

Jovi paused in her pacing. Her thumbs brushed over her fingers as she seemed to rock in place, torn between wanting to continue her path and wishing to stand still. And then, after a long moment, she let her hands fall to her sides, looking up in order to meet Arcann’s eyes. “You mean well – don’t misunderstand me when I say this, but you don’t know me. Thinking things over, parsing them in my mind, my experiments – it helps. Thinking in an orderly and rational fashion helps. It doesn’t stress me in the slightest. I…appreciate the thought.”

“Oh.” Arcann found himself wondering, at once, what he was doing there. And shame followed this line of thinking. He swallowed and pointed back at the compound. “Would you like me to go?”

“No, no.” She shook her head, beckoning him closer. “I’d like to keep walking, though. Would you like to come with me?”

The offer seemed so strange to Arcann. Considering how uncomfortable he felt, how he searched for every word – damn it all, he hadn’t felt so awkward before, when he was Emperor, where words and anger spilled out from between his lips and equal measurements of horror and confidence – he was surprised that Jovi didn’t dismiss him to his own devices. But he silently accepted, falling into step with her as she headed up the creek toward its source.

“May I ask you a personal question?” She murmured just above the tinkling babble of the water next to them.

“Of course.” He tried to hide the unsteadiness in his voice, grateful that she seemed…well, she was not at all herself, but she seemed to have gathered some of the pieces of herself back together.

“You had access to surgery technology that we do not have in the core worlds,” she said in a soft voice, lifting her head to look at Arcann. “Why did you keep your scars?”

Arcann reached up to lay his left hand across the same cheek. He couldn’t feel the scars beneath cybernetic fingers, anyway; the durasteel felt warm against the skin, however, as they always did. He was not offended by Jovi’s question – in fact, the warmth that had failed to settle into his flesh as a result of his rude awakening now arrived, curling into his chest. He found himself impressed by her bravery in Jovi’s inquiry.

He met her green-eyed gaze. “I thought about it,” he said, his deep voice carrying some of that warmth to her, projecting it also into the Force. It couldn’t hurt; perhaps he could share some of his growing ease. “And I wish I could give you an answer that wasn’t rooted in the anger I used to carry. While I was in hiding on Tattooine, I had the opportunity to submit myself to surgery. One of my allies even suggested it, saying that my enemies would be looking for me in my mask, or at least bearing my scars. This is how the people remembered me. I took off the mask – it wasn’t useful to me anymore. But the scars are mine. They are a part of me.”

There was a time that he slept with his mask strapped it his face. He could not bear to remove it. When a physician did, he needed painkillers dripped into his bloodstream for hours; the sensation of the air on his burns brought agony beyond thought, chasing away all hopes of rest or respite. That was nearly six years before. Now, he touched his face without shame or pain.

But then, something occurred to him, an echo of a memory, a scent on the wind that reminded him of how alone in his thoughts he was, and how he’d begun to grow used to the privacy of his mind. He moved to a deep pool and knelt at its bank, leaning forward on his hands so that he could gaze into its glassy surface. He could see his reflection, the shadows under his pale blue eyes and the roundness of his right cheek as compared to his left. He had once heard that he and Thexan did not seem their age; both had rolling bass voices that sounded as though they belonged to people many years older. The roundness of their faces, however, pointed to men that knew so much wore, but were still children in their years.

“I used to look at myself in the mirror, and see myself as half of a whole,” he admitted, though not regretfully. If anything, it seemed as though he were shaking out a dusty blanket on a forgotten bed, the air above glistening before clearing. “I would not be myself without my scars. They are part of my memories. Part of the person I am today. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” Jovi knelt down next to him, her reflection appearing next to his. Arcann could not see the color of her eyes, but the ripples in the water seemed to caress the planes of her face. “It’s strange. I never much minded my scars. I was more horrified about the loss of my feet. I’ve never been a vain person.”  
  
“Ah.” Arcann gave a small wiggle of his eyebrows. “I would imagine that it’s part of being a Jedi.”

“Then, you would be right.” Jovi did not smile, but the relief on her face was obvious, even in the ripples of the water. “There’s nothing wrong with caring about one’s appearance, of course. Not even buying a lip stain every now and again. Which reminds me – I should return to the compound and get to work. I – I have to think of a way around my experiment, now that it’s been ruined.” She shook her head.

“And I am late to lessons with the children.” Arcann wasn’t sure what time it was, but knew he’d be foregoing breakfast and a morning shower in order to not completely wreck the day with his tardiness. He rose up, waiting for Jovi to do the same.

And when she did, she pushed away her hair from her face, running her fingers through the uncombed strands. She stood an arm’s length away, but Arcann did not dare touch her, even to shake her hand, even to offer a comforting pat on the arm. They had much in common, but he was still himself. He may have carried no guile in his face, but he carried his sins upon his back like a bright beacon. He had much trust still to earn.

And he would be patient, even if it meant his ultimate end.

“Thank you for the walk,” she said in a quiet voice. “And…for helping me navigate my terrors.”

“I helped you navigate nothing,” Arcann pointed out, his voice no louder than hers. “You did it yourself. All I did was to join you on a morning walk.”

She bobbed her head, a quiet gesture of thanks that he returned. And then, they headed back for the compound. Jovi paused to collect her broken equipment, and there Arcann left her, hurrying back into the protective walls at a trot, ready to begin his day.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcann has a plan for the restoration of Zakuul.

Five

_In the darkness gold lies before me_

_Paths of green and blades in clumsy hands_

_Your fingers remember the green fields_

_How to till them and how to plant them_

_How to grow food and heal the soul_

_In the shattered skytrooper corpses._

  * Unknown Zakuulan expatriate, _Poems of Penance_ , 3630 BBY



Arcann heard his communicator beeping, the heaviness of his body declaring that he had not slept nearly enough to satisfy its needs. Stretching, he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his right hand, reaching out in the darkness to activate the button that would set it to transmit his voice only.

“Arcann, Lana here.” Her voice carried exhaustion; it was good to know that she wasn’t the only one roused out of her rest. “We have a situation on Zakuul that requires our immediate attention. The Empress wants a team dispatched to the capitol immediately.”

“I’m on my way.” Arcann could not consider the possibilities; there were too many. Instead, he simply rolled over and rose to his feet, wincing at the grumbles from his left side. Rolling a shoulder, he picked up the communicator and carried it to the closet that held his clothes.

“Suit up and meet us in the hangar. Lana out.” The communicator darkened.

It had been several months since the Odessen base had lit up with an emergency in the early hours of the night. Arcann dressed as fast as his body would allow, considering briefly the idea of heading to the medbay for an injection of pain reliever. No, he wouldn’t have the time. He was needed on Zakuul. And he knew that once adrenaline began to pump through his veins, the pain wouldn’t matter much anymore. So, he departed instead for the armory.

The red and blue Alliance armor that he now wore felt more suited to him than the royal armor he had worn for years, which now rested in storage in a container. Its purpose was to hide him, and other high-ranking members of the Alliance, among the troops. Once he slid the helmet on his head, strapping on the custom-made glove onto his left hand, only his shape, height, and the gold-bladed lightsaber he wielded set him apart from the rest.

Lana emerged from her own corner of the armory, nodding her head at Arcann as he dressed. She held her own helmet in both hands. Raising her head, she addressed the bleary-eyed soldiers that readied themselves: “Her Majesty will brief you on the situation.”

And then, the Empress stepped through the large door to the armory, also carrying her helmet. Deep rings of exhaustion clung to her gold eyes, and she spoke in an unusually graveled voice, setting the helmet on a chair before her. “As you all may have heard, protests, riots, and other acts of rebellion are a near daily occurrence on Zakuul. Most of these events occur in the capitol city, and usually end in significant property damage and loss of life.” She drew out a small projector, creating the hologram of a building in midair, a factory that Arcann immediately recognized.

“The Imperial Gold factory,” he murmured out loud. The gaze of all in the room turned to him, earning a nod from Zayetana.

“Poorly defended building, for a treasury,” noted Aric Jorgan, crossing his arms.

“Because it’s not a treasury.” Senya stepped forward and up next to Arcann. He had not even seen her arrive, and his thoughts had been too muddled to feel her presence in the Force. “Imperial Gold Bars are part of the meal rations given to Zakuulan citizens on a monthly basis. They are more nutritious than the meal bars given to troops in the Core Worlds.”

Aric grunted. “Probably better tasting.”

“The factory has been running at forty-five percent distribution since Zakuul joined the Alliance.” Zayetana’s voice tinged with regret. The ghostly hologram cast a blue shadow across her pale face and white lips. “As we know, the basic infrastructure of Zakuul is disintegrating. Zakuul is suffering the same economic depression as the rest of the galaxy, but on a greater and more devastating scale. Unlike the Core Worlds, who can revert to more agrarian uses of land, the people of Zakuul never spent time as farmers. Valkorion simply skipped them past that compulsory portion of the history of most worlds.”

“Farming is only a hobby to some of my people.” Arcann suddenly saw Jovi’s face in his mind. Was she aware of this? That her work was simply alien to Zakuulans? Something so primal as growing food with one’s own hands, nurturing the soil, tending to the seedlings – it was not necessary for life, and a mystery to people who received their food already packaged and sorted. “They can’t compensate for the loss of the food grants.”

“At any rate, a gang of unknown affiliation has taken the factory.” Zayetana clicked the projector with a gloved thumb, and the holographic factory flickered into nothingness. She quickly slid the projector back into her belt pouch, and returned her attention to the gathered troops. “Early reports say that there may be innocents inside the building. The gang was reportedly allowing people to trade members of their family for food.”

Arcann tensed his shoulders, his lips curling back in revulsion. His people, instituting slavery? Had they become so horrible, or had the darkness always been within them, tucked within their full bellies, ready to vomit out at the hint of starvation?

“Uncool,” Vette said from the pile of crates on which she was perched. “Selling your grandmother for a meal. Wish I could say that I hadn’t seen that in the Core Worlds.”

“In interests of unity with Zakuul, we will attempt to take the gang members into custody.” Dissatisfaction tugged at the corners of Zayetana’s pale mouth. Arcann doubted that was her preferred method of handling the situation. “If they prove unfriendly to this suggestion, or try to harm the innocents, kill them. It is critical that we make an example of this gang. The Alliance wishes to help the people of Zakuul rebuild their planet. Attacking infrastructure is counterproductive to this goal.” She gave a nod of her head. “We leave in ten minutes. Dismissed.”

Arcann placed his helmet on his head and secured the strap. In his mind’s eye, he saw Jovi holding a pot with a seedling sprouting upon the dark soil. Could she not save Zakuul without firing a shot? Could she not set the people on a different path, where their lives had purpose, where they could nurture the planet and one another?

He waited until the rest of the squad headed off toward the shuttle, and fell back, trying to match his footsteps with his much shorter friend. “Have we attempted any widespread farming initiatives?” he asked her, testing to make sure that his helmet communicator was not on. There was no reason to let the rest of the squad hear their conversation.

“Draining the swamps to create farmland would take decades. Demolition of unused structures would take credits that the Alliance simply does not have.” Zayetana slid on her own helmet, tucking her long braid into the neckline of her chestplate. “Some of the people have the desire to learn, but education programs would do too little, far too late. The agricultural planets in the Core Worlds aren’t willing to share even small surpluses. They’re terrified of further deteriorating of the economy. And the Hutts…” she sighed, her voice sounding pale beneath her helmet. “…Empress Acina is busy slapping their slimy little hands every time they start speculating. Just yesterday, agents of the Empire discovered an illegal trade in seed. _Seed_ , Arcann. It’s more lucrative to trade in food than in narcotics.”

“You have the defense of the Alliance to concern yourself with.” Senya paused long enough to allow Zayetana and Arcann to catch up. “You need to learn to delegate, Zayetana.”

“I do delegate.” Zayetana turned her gold-eyed gaze on the older Knight. “My Alliance is suffering a critical food shortage. Millions will starve without intervention. This is my top priority, greater than the threat than the Heralds of Zildrog, or the saber rattling over Iokath.”

“Joveaux Benning has training in such matters. The center of her research was on increasing food production using the Force.” Arcann was grateful for his secret journey onto the holonet. “Have you considered speaking to her on these matters?”

“The Jedi Master on Oggurobb’s team?” Zayetana’s tones rose with interest. “I thought he had her dedicated to a special project. I’m afraid I’m not aware of the day to day operations of specific teams.”

“Summon her to speak to you.” Just recommending Jovi to Zayetana made Arcann feel warm, even moreso in the multiple layers of clothing and protective armor. “She may have some thoughts on the matter.”

“Very well. Let’s table this discussion for after the mission.” They had reached the open shuttle, and Zayetana remained standing, taking a handhold at the door opposite the open one.  
  
Arcann took a nearby seat, Senya slipping into the one next to him. She gave his arm a small pat before falling still and silent. In the Force, Arcann could feel his mother’s presence – she was peaceful and steady, focused and strong. He could only assume that she was meditating, but it was impossible to see if her eyes were closed while she wore her helmet.

At that hour, none of the squad seemed keen for discussion. Aric Jorgan held his helmet in his lap, taking occasional sips from a durasteel container, but his eyes were fixed on his own boots, his gaze distant and bleary. Theron, who was decidedly not in armor and also sipping from his own container, piloted the shuttle, setting it into hyperspace with little fanfare or discussion.

Would Jovi be up to the challenge of feeding Zakuul? A pang of guilt began to throb within Arcann’s chest. He thought he had been providing well for his people. And, indeed, they never complained about their feeding. In fact, they rejoiced at the wide variety of foods that he quite literally plundered from the Core Worlds. Within six years, Zakuul had gone from dining like Hutts to scrambling for scraps of food. Could Jovi inspire them to take up farming? Could she encourage them to use all of their scientific curiosity to create sustainable lives for themselves? It was a great expectation for someone that didn’t even hold office in the new Eternal Alliance. Not to mention that he did not know her well enough to predict her reaction to his nomination.  
  
“The Palace of the Eternal Dragon sustained minor structural damage during the war.” It was a strange thing for Empress Zayetana to say out loud; it garnered some odd looks from the sleepy squad, and Arcann’s curiosity. “I’ve never had a desire to live there, not to mention how unwise it would be for the Outlander to simply walk in to the royal palace and make it her own. Flouting wealth in a time of economic desperation is a simple way to drive Zakuul to rebellion.”  
  
“Alright. Where are you going with this?” Senya was frowning beneath her helmet, her meditation broken. Arcann couldn’t see his mother’s face, but he could hear the disapproval in her voice. After all, the Palace of the Eternal Dragon had once been her home.

“Granted, there are portions of the palace that I’ve made off limits, save for the Jedi and Sith who are cataloguing and securing Valkorion’s possessions. Those artifacts pose a danger to anyone not taking precautions in their handling but – that’s not what I’m referring to.” The former Outlander tilted her helmeted head. “There are hundreds of floors, above and below ground, standing empty. Each contain massive rooms. I’ve seen hanging gardens on other worlds, some as tall as the Palace. Could we not use it for farming? Returning the building to the people – it may be seen as a gesture of good faith.”  
  
“Or an insult in filling the Emperor’s palace with dirt.” Senya’s voice soured further.

Arcann’s mind however, illuminated. He had walked every floor of the palace, some hundreds of times, during sleepless nights. He had often thought of the palace as a grand waste of space, a vertical monument filled with lavish furniture and artwork and artifacts, some rooms rarely visited or used.

“But it’s not a bad idea,” Arcann rumbled, turning his attention to Zayetana. “I’ve seen these hanging gardens, too. It takes thousands to tend to these places. The people of Zakuul will have jobs, as well as food and clean water. If they are intent on learning to govern themselves, let them start by being guided in this project.”  
  
Senya grunted, but made no real comment from beneath her helmet.

“Agreed.” Zayetana nodded her head at Arcann.

“Are they gonna wanna do that, though?” Vette spoke up from the far end of the transport. “These guys have been given everything they need whenever they want it. Do you know what I mean? Are they going to even realize that they have to work for it now? Isn’t it just going to piss them off? Here we are, Core Worlders, the ones that are supposed to be the uncultured ones, telling these enlightened Zakuulans that they have to get their hands dirty.”

“They’ll have to see reason,” said Arcann. “They don’t have any other choice.”

“Hm.” Zayetana shifted, looking now out of the front window of the shuttle. Theron had just dropped out of hyperspace, and was starting landing procedures down on the surface of Zakuul. The world, brilliant green and blue and shimmering with trillions of lights, awaited them below. “I’ll consider this further.”

“No time to consider anything but not getting killed,” said Theron from the front end of the transport. “We’re here.”  
  
Zayetana opened the door to the shuttle, keeping a hand on the nearest handhold, for they hadn’t entirely landed yet. They descended among great clouds of smoke and crackling fire, klaxons ringing out into the midday air, which already promised thick heat. Arcann took a breath and immediately wished he hadn’t drawn in so much – the humidity was to be expected of the capitol city, that much was normal, but the mixture of smoke and pollutants proved irritating and oppressive at the same time. He coughed, considering that some of the environmental scrubbers must have been offline due to damage, and removed his safety belt, climbing to his feet while holding on to his own handhold.

Blaster fire rang out, as did shouts and roars, the latter of which shook the floor of the transport once it landed in what used to be a manicured park. Arcann followed the much shorter Empress out of the transport and immediately jogged behind a monument before taking stock of the situation. The first thing that he noticed was the statue behind which he stood – a headless young man cast in stone, wearing a familiar looking tunic, even with a cybernetic left arm –

Oh. It was a statue of him. Except someone had blasted off the head to locations unknown, and the base smelled strongly of urine.

The park was manicured insomuch as it no longer had life inside of it, save for some citizens who scattered out of the way of the landing transport and the squad members ducking behind chunks of granite and toppled monuments. No one had cared for the fountain; garbage floated in the oil-coated water. The trees held no leaves or fruit, and the bushes had been flattened and uprooted by unseen feet and hands.

Across the park, a barricade had been assembled just before the factory, mostly made of discarded and burned out vehicles of all shapes and sizes. A broken billboard, the only discernable design depicting a pair of purple lips, made up much of the barricade’s western wall.

Arcann had never seen the capitol in such disarray; he found his energy drained away at the horror of the streets before them. Bottles rolled and broke against the cracked pavement. Some citizens, their fine clothes soiled and torn, hung back against the shattered buildings, their faces gaunt and sad. Transparisteel windows had somehow been shattered, shops looted, lights flickering unevenly and without care.

Lana took cover near the barricade, drawing her lightsaber. When she shouted, her voice proved surprisingly resonant: “Empress Zayetana is here. She will listen to your demands –“

She could not be loud enough, however, to cut through the hail of blaster fire that followed, coming from the pirates poking their heads just above the barricade’s top.

“Fine,” Lana muttered into her communicator. “We’ll handle it their way.”

She charged headlong toward the barricade, ran up it, deflecting blaster fire with each swing of her blade, and attacked the pirates.

Arcann watched as the Empress followed, then Vette, then Jorgan, and lay his hand on his lightsaber. He was prepared to draw and join the melee, when a hand grabbed his arm.

He turned, and found himself facing a crowd of people. His people. Zakuulans of all ages, none of them looking as healthy or resplendent as he had remembered them. Most were dirty, their hair and faces unwashed and sad. They wore practical clothes, not the loose and shining robes of the past, and most of their garments bore tears or burn marks.

“Please!” It was a woman who clung to his arm, a woman who looked shrunken in her own skin. “Are you with the Eternal Alliance?”

Arcann was grateful for his helmet, and prayed that none of them would recognize his voice. “Yes. I’m sorry - I need to join my squad, so we can rid the factory of these pirates.”

He wanted to flee from them, his soul churning at the sight of the suffering of his people. Under Valkorion, whom they never believed to be anything less than benevolent, they had thrived. Now, despite the Alliance’s best efforts, they collapsed under the weight of their own gilded society. He was partially to blame, and now, as he looked into their eyes, as the pop-pop-pop of blaster fire filled his eyes, he realized that there was little that could be done, and none of it was easy.

He was witnessing the death of a society, the horrors at the end of shattered dreams. It was a nightmare in which no one, least of all a disgraced Emperor, wished to be enmired within. But they would not let him go.

“Please!” The woman sobbed. “My children are starving.”

Another man coughed out, “I have the swamp throat. You used to be able to buy medicine at the chemist. My wife died of it. Please, just one pill.”

A child in the crowd began to wail.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Arcann backed up, nearly into his own headless statue. He splashed into a puddle, and he decided that he wasn’t going to consider what might have now been dripping off his boots. “I’ll tell the Empress. Please, I must go. I must –“

Voices rose up, some shouting in anger, some outright weeping. No one had recognized him; to have let his voice resonate in their memories would have brought nothing but further agony. He could only relieve their suffering in fits and starts. He could break the siege of the factory. And so, he slipped away from the crowd, deftly scaling the barricade, and slipping over it.  
  
The rest of the squad had already taken care of the pirates at the barricade. Arcann darted into the factory, dodging blaster fire, and behind a pile of stacked crates. In the middle of the factory, on the lower level and on the upper floors, on machine and flipping over silent production lines, he saw the Alliance soldiers attacking in their own unique ways, felling the attackers or swiftly cuffing them when they could. He advanced, his back to a wall, slipping inside what he believed was an office, but saw very quickly that he was wrong – it was some sort of research lab. A destroyed research lab, with most of its equipment shattered or repurposed into drug manufacturing instruments.  
  
One entire wall of the lab was filled with cages, cages filled with people packed so tightly that their bodies were pressed together, rags and skin and desperation filling every available space. Some turned their faces in Arcann’s direction, others murmured, but none called out to him.  
  
Arcann strode over to the captives, drawing his lightsaber. “I need to clear a path for you all,” he told them, glancing nervously at the door. So far, his trip into the hostages’ room had not been noticed by the pirates. “Stay here for a moment.” Swiftly, he cut the locks with his weapon, one after another, briefly sending showers of sparks into the air, coupled with the angry hum of his gold blade. The captives began to pile out of the rooms – first one, then ten, then…By the gods, how many people had these pirates shoved into the cages, their fates unknown and traded to fill the bellies of their families?

How would their families look upon them now? Would they ever recover? Could someone go to a festival or celebrate a new season with someone who had sold them into slavery?

Arcann darted toward the door and peeked out. It was then that a new idea occurred to him. Before him lay the boxes that he had used to cover his path to the laboratory. One had been shattered by blaster fire, revealing countless of meal bars, most still in good condition, now spilling onto the floor and in danger of being smashed. Aric Jorgan, repositioning himself so he could safely snipe the enemy from a cradle on top of a large machine, trod upon one as he scaled a nearby wall using a chain.  
  
Rushing forward, Arcann deactivated his lightsaber, grabbed a handful of bars, and returned to the lab. He started by shoving three into a child’s hand, then gave two to a lady of Senya’s age. “Heads down. Keep running. The way is clear. Go now!” He shouted, continuing to press bars into hands, over and over and over.  
  
And he guided them, out of the laboratory, drawing his lightsaber once again, tossing it at a pirate that dared stick her head over the side of one of the crates. The gold beam hummed as it deprived the pirate of her head, returning to Arcann’s head in a wide arc. The head bounced and rolled across the floor, a teenage boy crying out in horror as he nearly tripped over it.  
  
Arcann dipped down to grab a few more bars, and kept moving. He deflected the blaster fire from an incoming pirate, and, with a glance to see that the hostages were still moving, he tossed the bars at them and kept advancing toward his new foe. This one he dispatched before the pirate could even draw his vibroknife; he crumpled with a blade to his chest.  
  
The battle was ending. He saw Lana Beniko dragging another bound pirate to sit against the wall. Once again, Arcann stowed his lightsaber, but this time, he picked up one of the intact crates and followed the last of the captives out into the courtyard. In the hazy evening he walked, seeing the freed hostages scrambling toward the gathered crowd for safety. And, once again, he found himself facing his people behind the safety of his helmet.

Arcann took a deep breath. He dropped the crate at his feet and nudged it open with his booted foot. And he addressed the desperate people of Zakuul, only partially aware that a camera drone dropped down next to him:  
  
“Citizens of Zakuul! The Eternal Alliance and Empress Zayetana wish to aid you through these dark times. Her Imperial Majesty seeks solutions to your desperation and pain. Do not despair! You will see our – your – empire rise to new glory! The Zakuul that will rise from the ashes of our – your – former Empire is one of self-determination and partnership. Neighbors, from house to house and from world to world, will rebuild Zakuul together. You will find purpose in your lives once again, your destinies shaped by your own hands, instead of the will of your benevolent ruler. For now - know some comfort tonight!”

He did not want to give a long speech. He did not want to give a speech at all. He simply started handing out the bars, tossing them toward eager hands, letting the people take as much as they wanted or needed. And, just when he began to realize that the crate was nearly empty, he saw crates land next to him with a thud. Vette had joined him, and then Senya and the Empress.

Some of the people began to press forward to bow low to Zayetana, thanking her for liberating the factory. The remainder of the squad began to gently guide the crowd back and behind the gates of the factory, even as more and more meal bars were pressed into their desperate hands.

“This isn’t enough.” The last bar had been given out, and Aric closed the gates, locking them at a keypad. He scanned the yard before them, empty and smashed crates littering the spaces where dead bodies did not lie. “We get this factory running, and then what? With what materials?”

“We should go have a look at the Palace.” Senya’s voice sounded tired and resigned. She stooped down to try to collect the glittering wrappers that had been thrown to the ground, that now scattered in the wind, drifting across footprints in the mid and coming to rest on the bodies of the dead. “Make our plans for these hanging gardens, and see what Oggurobb and the Jedi have to say about it.” She shoved the wrappers into an already-overflowing garbage bin.

Arcann turned to look at his mother, surprised at her reaction. “You’re content with this?”

“No.” Senya brushed off her hands and turned her eyes up to her son’s helmeted face. “But it is the only plan we’ve got.”

Zayetana nodded her head. “We’ve got no time to waste. Come.” She started toward the gate, where the crowds had dispersed, and behind which the shuttle waited. “With Zakuul as unstable as it is, I’m concerned about bringing them down to the surface. Their safety cannot be guaranteed.”

“I will guarantee it.” Arcann was firm in that resolve, even though he knew that it would be a difficult task. Who knew the true situation brewing in the palace before they even arrived. “Come along. We have no choice, now. We progress or the Alliance falls.”


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcann and Senya give the Alliance a gift.

Six

Senya carried a large stone in both of her gloved hands. Arcann recognized it immediately; it had once hung next to his and Thexan’s rooms when they were children. It was at least a thousand years old, depicting ancient Zakuulans in the worship of Scyva and her glory.

“Your Majesty,” Senya said, moving in the direction of the Empress, “I have a request. I acquired this for my family, to remind my children of their faith, even if Valkorion looked down upon its worship. I wish to keep it in my family, if you would allow it.”

The gesture stunned Arcann. His right hand hung over the datapad he carried, shocked into stillness.

Zayetana, too, recognized the rarity of Senya’s actions. “You are so rarely sentimental, Senya. I could not refuse you such a thing. You can take whatever you wish from the Palace, though. I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Vaylin destroyed all of my possessions when she took the throne.” Arcann gave a shake of his head. “There’s nothing that I want here.”

“I just want this carving for Arcann.” Senya cast the smallest of smiles in his direction. “I’ll load it onto the transport myself.” She departed, carrying it in both hands again, cradling it as if it were a small child.

Arcann felt a lump forming in his throat. It was moments like this that ached, as if that carving sat on his chest, pressing its weight of the ages into his very soul. He was reminded, time after time, hour after hours, that the reason that he was able to sit here, in the Palace of the Eternal Dragon, ready to turn it into the largest garden that the galaxy had ever seen, was by the grace of his mother and her ally, the Empress.

He lived on granted time. He never forgot it.

Looking back down at his datapad, at the blank open file, he saw the words behind his own blue eyes, the emotions surging and taking root, green spreading in the sun as leaves unfolded and gave blessing to the nearest star.

_I buried you in a mound of dirt_

_Beaded with bent and broken and bright bars._

_This is my memoriam_

_Sent on liberated limbs and fiery fingers,_

_You will stand up with your own bones_

_Pulling tossed trees toward twining towers._

“You still write poetry.” Senya had returned and was watching Arcann, though she did not stand close enough to read what he had written. “I’m glad.”  
  
“I write mostly for myself these days.” Arcann saved the file, closed it, and slid his datapad back into a pouch.

He noticed then that his mother peered skeptically upon him, one eyebrow raised in such a way that told him that she did not believe what he was saying.

“You could still publish your work,” she said, the eyebrow returning to rest.

Arcann found himself relieved that, whatever lie she had caught in his words, she did not remark directly on it. “I would need an agent,” he told her. “I couldn’t walk into a publishing house and ask for my books to be printed. Not anymore.”

“Mm.” Senya clasped her hands behind her back, stepping a few meters away, her head turned up to the sky in a thoughtful pose. “Have you thought of asking your Commander?”

“I don’t know any publishers,” said Zayetana, who had been quietly listening to the discussions. “I could, however, ask my father.”

“You could publish under a different name.” Senya did not look away from the sky above them, the thick cloud cover of Zakuul punctured by the angular towers around them. “Saying…I don’t know…that you’re an expatriate. A refugee of Zakuul who misses his home.”

“It wouldn’t be a lie,” noted Zayetana.

It was a good idea. Arcann followed Senya’s gaze, and saw that there was a shuttle there, diving through the thick cover of clouds, straightening its body as it came in for a landing in the ruined garden that they occupied. In the Force, Arcann felt a familiar glimmer of curiosity – Jovi was on-board the vessel, and she had no idea what was in store for her.

He found himself nodding silently at the idea. He could publish again. He did not need to leave it behind.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” He murmured, stepping forward as the shuttle landed and the doors opened.

Doctor Oggurobb dispatched first, his great girth slithering to the ground. “I loathe shuttle transport. Ghastly vehicles,” he grumbled, offering a polite bow to the Empress.

“I apologize for your discomfort.” Zayetana did not seem sorry in the slightest. “We could not chance a larger craft.”

Jovi stepped off of the transport, lifting her head first to see the sky above, then looking at the palace, its walls stretching around them, forming the courtyard, and before them, impossibly high up, to the Eternal Throne, the solarium, and its accompanying decks. She, of course, could not see the latter three, for they hung tens of thousands of meters up, in the stratosphere of the planet. But Arcann could see that she was enthralled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to give Zayetana a small bow. “I don’t really know why I am here.”

Her gaze fell upon Arcann, and she offered him the smallest of smiles, but he caught the confusion in her face.

Arcann spoke up, offering both scientists the information that they sought: “This used to be Senya’s private garden. When I became Emperor, I turned it into a practice range. For shooting my blasters.”

He expected Senya to give her immediate disapproval, but all he could feel in the Force was her sadness. “There were once plants here, trees from all over the galaxy. Peaceful fountains.” She stepped around the immediate area, touching the empty planters with the fingertips of her gloved hands, her bright blue eyes filling with melancholy memories. “Valkorion built this garden for me. It was the only place in the galaxy that the Immortal Emperor had to be given permission to enter. It was my refuge. My private sanctuary.”

Arcann hadn’t been the one to ruin it first, but there was no sense in bringing that up. There was no reason to harm his mother with the knowledge of what Valkorion himself had done to the garden when Senya left. Thexan and Arcann had awoken in the middle of the night, crowding onto their balcony to investigate the commotion in the garden. Valkorion held a red-bladed lightsaber – it was one of the few times they had seen him wielding one – and spent much of the night hours striking flowering bushes and dainty trees with melee and with lightning from his fingertips. He did not cry out as he moved through the growing piles of rubble. He did not scream in anger or in mourning.

He set flower beds and vining berries aflame, the chill on his face never shifting from its ever-present neutrality.

“It is right that it should see life again.” Senya turned to Jovi, closing the distance between them slowly. “Below us is a small water treatment plant used only for the Spire. You wouldn’t need to rely on the city’s water system.”

“We believe that one way to solve Zakuul’s financial depression is to turn the palace into a hanging garden.” Zayetana turned to address Oggurobb.

“Oh…” Breathed the hutt scientist, his large head tilting up as far as it could. “An ambitious undertaking…very ambitious…”

Arcann, however, was looking at Jovi. And she, in turn, was staring back at him, waiting for a reason for this request, this grant of a palace the likes of which did not exist in the Core Worlds, a gift to the people of Zakuul.

“It would be ambitious,” Arcann rumbled, not breaking his gaze with Jovi, feeling warmer then, certain that this palace, this place of his birth and his gilded cage – it was meant to pass from his hands. It was meant to make good in the galaxy. “Your project from Asylum, many times bigger –“

“ – many hundreds of times bigger.” Jovi’s voice shook as she turned to speak to Zayetana. “Your Majesty, Doctor Oggurobb and I could not undertake such a project alone.”

“Of course not.” Zayetana linked her hands behind her back. “You will need not just one team, but several teams. For now, they cannot be paid in credits, but credits would not aid the people of Zakuul. You can, quite literally, grow their salaries, can you not? Medicinal herbs and vegetables.”

“Making cures for common diseases and ailments would take no effort whatsoever,” said Oggurobb, “with a simple distillate setup. But we are getting ahead of ourselves! We must tour the Spire and take notes for every room, every corridor. Your Majesty, you have given my scientist and I – and the people of Zakuul – an incredible gift. We will not waste it. And – accolades to Senya and Arcann, of course.”

Arcann hardly heard him. He found himself at Jovi’s side, wanting very much to speak to her privately. As he could not – as this moment was not about him, and should not be made as such, he remained silent, basking quietly in the joy that radiated from her, the energy, the curiosity at all of the possibilities.

“Arcann, I…” She began, trailing off and into silence.

Arcann made very sure that she was finished speaking. He did not want to interrupt her a second time, or draw her annoyance in front of others. This was her moment to shine, one that he would not tarnish with his foolishness. So, as if the moment were a poem, he drew up words that felt right and proper, matching in lock-step with the skirmish he had experienced a few hours before.

“Do what you do best,” he murmured, hesitating as he reached for her closest arm. He put his hand there, gently, on the sleeve of her tan robes, just heavy enough so that she could feel his support. “Heal the land, Jovi. Heal my people.”

A noise choked in her throat. Jovi nodded her head, her words muted for now.

“Jovi, come! Come! We have much to do!” Oggurobb called out. He had progressed to the corridor beyond, at a hutt’s pace, and had acquired a datapad for his notes.

“Right.” Jovi nodded her head, swallowing audibly. She cast a small, uneasy smile onto her features, patted the tips of her fingers on Arcann’s closest sleeve, and moved off toward the wandering hutt.

Arcann found himself, without realizing it, curling his left hand around the place where Jovi had touched, his skin still registering the pressure of her own fingertips. But he did see his mother staring at him with knowing in her gaze.

He didn’t want to talk about something he couldn’t entirely verbalize. Not yet. Senya would press him to put the eddies of emotion into words – it was futile to expect something in a very few minutes when he himself could not arrange the urges.

“I’m going to take a walk,” he told her. “I’ll keep my communicator on.”

“Where are you going?” Concern filled Senya’s voice.

Arcann shrugged. “I have not been in the palace for months. Let me put the past to rest, at least.”

“Of course.” Senya seemed satisfied with the explanation. “I’ll keep my communicator on. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Senya wanted to remain open to Arcann, ready for whatever he might want to share with her, whatever moments he would be willing to split with her own. He recognized it, even appreciated her desire to become part of his life. It was nice not to feel so utterly alone in the universe, to share the galaxy with someone with which he had a deep Force bond, someone who truly recognized the strife in waking up, day after day, with the motivation of cleaning up the cosmic mess he had made of the galaxy.

But for now, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. And he knew where he wanted to go, half-expecting to cross Oggurobb and Jovi on his path. He did not; on the way to the lifts that led to the royal apartments, he could hear the hutt scientist’s booming voice down the corridor, remarking about the connections to the plumbing. He took the lift in silence, and arrived into a wide corridor that was utterly empty.

And in disarray. Some of the paintings had been outright looted, while the frames of others had cracked or shattered. A thin layer of dust lay over almost every surface; Arcann could not help but drag his prosthetic hand over an end table, then look down at the tufts of dust on his black durasteel fingertips.

The first suite belonged to himself and Thexan once. Two bedrooms, a shared sitting room and study, and a shared refresher. He activated the door, uncertain as to what he would see, and was met with no great surprises. The suite was as it had been even when he was Emperor. The basics of furniture, elegant but showing no real depth, no personality. No one had lived there in six years. It was clean, but dusty, waiting occupants that may never again arrive.

Leaving the suite, he moved down the corridor, pausing once again at a closed door. Vaylin’s old rooms. He had no doubt that she had not remained there after his indirect abdication. Lightly laying a hand on the activation panel, he let himself inside, and saw that his assumptions had been correct. Only a handful of Vaylin’s possessions remained – a suit of practice armor from her childhood years, a few hardcover books, a music player, an older-model terminal. Arcann walked between these, touching each one, inhaling deeply as he moved into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and the scent of some kind of sanitizer hung in the air.

Gone. The Tirall family was gone from their home. They were harmed by Valkorion and damaged by one another, departed from the very place that had been shelter and jail cell. Arcann, too, departed the room, his heart quickening as he stepped to the end of the corridor, to the suite that had once been his. He had spent many sleepless nights beyond the durasteel door, pacing the floors, raging silently, fingers clawing at the sides of his head. Why could he not rule his people in a way that pleased them all? Why were they miserable? Why did they not love him and instead clamored for the memory of a monster?

Arcann opened the door, and Vaylin’s scent flooded upon him.

The rooms had been left untouched. The possessions waited, in eternal patience, for their owner to return. A beautiful dress, the lines simple and fabric elegant, hung on a peg, now veiled in half a year’s dust. A tulula vine hanging in a pot now withered beyond repair, its hand-sized leaves and purple flowers now scattered and crackled upon the fine carpets. Next to her terminal, which was mercifully dark, sat a covered plate, a caf pot, and a vacant mug.

Vaylin had ordered her dinner in the belief that she would return from her attack on Odessen. Now, it stood forever silent, a memory of his sister, of her tyranny and her tears, her toil and her terror.

A lump formed in Arcann’s throat.

Not a single one of his possessions had remained in the room, but it didn’t surprise him. No doubt, she had ordered that they be burned or thrown away and, in truth, Arcann did not blame Vaylin. He moved to her bedroom and opened the door, there seeing that the bed had been replaced by Vaylin, the sheets turned down, her slippers on the floor below her pillows.

All of these things had waited for Vaylin, these cold and heartless possessions. They were there for her when mortal beings could not be.

He sunk slowly onto the bed and tilted up his head. Above him, the stars unfurled in their majesty, their beauty unmarred by the city lights below, their parade unfettered in the depths of space. His chest ached as her voice whispered in his mind, but a child’s voice, the child that had not been broken and abused and terrorized. The laugh that did not come laden with cruelty, riding on memories of the cruelty done to her.

And, in the end, Arcann felt no tears come to his eyes. No. His regret would have been too shallow had he wept. It occurred to him that there were but some horrors in the galaxy for which tears would be an insult; the void’s depth of agony required expressions of sorrow that no human could articulate with their bodies.

In the Force, he felt a shift – an inquiry, though a quiet one. Jovi was looking for him. While they had no established connection, he began to feel her presence in the Force as a familiar one, a comforting one. One that he did not push away, and waited, in silence and among Vaylin’s possessions, for her approach.

After a few minutes ticked by, he heard the door to the suite open. Shortly thereafter, the rush of air recyclers almost startled him, the whoosh covering any noise that Jovi made in her approach. Arcann remained seated on Vaylin’s bed, but turned to acknowledge her, his cybernetic hand resting on his left knee.

She slipped around the doorjam of the room, her shoulders sloped, as if she had been sneaking through the chamber beyond. “Am I interrupting?” she murmured, her tone cautious.

Arcann shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “In fact, I…I think I would like some company.”

It was the truth. If he remained in Vaylin’s rooms, alone with his regret and his memories, he would tumble into the nothingness of despair.

It seemed to Arcann that, at last, Jovi gave herself permission to look around the room, to peek at the chamber beyond, to take a slow path to the bed. “I wanted to thank you for letting the Eternal Empire do this. This was your home, Arcann. This can’t have been easy.”

Arcann looked at the window before him. The privacy curtains had been drawn, the folds of fabric now home to tufts of dust that shimmered with his every breath. The lump in his throat made his words sound unusually graveled in his own ears: “I have a complicated relationship with this palace.”

“I can imagine.” The mattress compressed as Jovi sat upon it, next to him, close enough that their bodies touched.

“But…” It was so hard, as always to put thought to word. This was no poem. This was a conversation. Poems could be constructed with sounds and turns of phrase, building emotion in the meter. Conversations had to be understood. Arcann drew a breath, and tried again: “This is as it should be.” Exhaling, he rolled his head up, looking again at the stars above for a moment, before leaning over to the bedside table to activate the small panel there. With a creaky whir, the privacy shades slid aside, revealing the curve of the planet before them, the fluffy clouds, the sharp towers like pins through a garment. “There was so much violence done under this roof. I killed my brother here.” Even after six years, his chest physically ached when he mentioned Thexan’s death. “It should be a place of healing. The balance should be restored. My family is shattered. It’s only right to bury us. We should feed Zakuul with our bones.”

“No.” Jovi shook her head. “No. You’re wrong, Arcann. Yes, the balance should be restored, you were right about that. But this is a new beginning for your family. You’ve still got your entire life to do good in this galaxy. And your mother can help you – she wants to help you. She will stand beside you.”  
  
The silence fell between them. Arcann watched as a ship broke the atmosphere, pivoted around slowly, then vanished into hyperspace, into the stars beyond.

“There’s more.” Jovi placed a hand on Arcann’s arm. He could feel the weight from underneath his armor, but not the sensation. “I am astonished that you thought of me. Of me, Arcann. I’m astonished and overwhelmed and grateful and…and I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Arcann looked to her face, her heart-shaped face and her bright green eyes. Never before had they been this close. And, even in his sadness, new warmth spread into the void with veins of gold and grace. “You were the best person for the job. But there is more, Jovi. I sense the reason that you find solace in your plants. You heal people and you heal yourself and you use your vegetables and your flowers to do both. I could have never imagined that someone would do something like that – something so simple and so pure and peaceful. And now…” A surge of self-consciousness struck him, and his cheeks colored with the slightest amount of shame. “…I am the one rambling.”

Jovi chuckled, her gaze dropping for only a moment before her eyes returned to his face. “I could show you what I do.” But the seriousness returned to her, depth in her eyes and in her words: “You seek healing. So do I. That kind of healing is slow, and it comes from within – not from another person or a ceremony or a thing. It’s a process, Arcann. One that…” she hesitated, her lips still parted as she drew breath from in between them. “…one that you do not have to travel alone.”

The warmth overcame him, his skin tingling as he reached for her hand. “It’s better to travel these roads in pairs, is it not?”

Jovi did not answer in words. Her fingers threaded through his, her bare skin nestling into the tough leatheris of his glove.

They sat before the observation window for a long time, hand in hand, watching the ships rising up to begin their journey into the vast unknown of the galaxy.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, the Alliance has changed, and so have Arcann and Jovi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all so much for your patience. I'm still updating this and I intend on finishing! I just have had a difficult few months and almost no time/inclination to write. Anyway, enjoy!

PART TWO

**Chapter Seven**

_How shall we dance on Izaxus Day?_

_We should spin red in the flames of his eyes_

_Beat our feet and our drums all night_

_On Izaxus Day._

_What shall we sing on Izaxus Day?_

_Joy and laughter in our melodies_

_Shouts shield us from freezing eddies_

_On Izaxus Day._

_Let me give you a gift on Izaxus Day._

_Memory murmured into melodies_

_Whispers white on winter wind_

_Enchant the evening everlasting_

_On Izaxus Day._

  * Unknown Zakuulan expatriate, _Poems of Penance_ , 3630 BBY



“You wanted to see me?”

Arcann lingered in the doorway of the makeshift office. Indeed, the occupant had attempted to make the room as tidy as possible with as few materials as were available. A flawless set of Empire officer’s armor hung on a rack next to a shelf made of discarded metallic sheeting; the desk was standard Empire issue, but the chair was a sloped Zakuulan design.

Malavai Quinn did not look up from his terminal; he still typed in silence, working as if he had not heard Arcann.

It was behavior that Arcann had expected the moment he heard that the Empress had been reunited with her missing husband on Iokath. Quinn’s feelings toward Arcann could be easily quantified as _resentful_ and _murderous_. In truth, Arcann was surprised at neither – he had, after all, harmed much of the galaxy, in addition to Zayetana – but he was more surprised that Quinn had not request Arcann’s immediate removal as his daughters’ teacher.

Then again, for all Arcann knew, Quinn _had_ requested it, only to be overruled by his wife.

Quinn was, technically, no longer in the service of the Sith Empire’s Navy. As he was the consort to the Empress of Zakuul, it presented a conflict of interest. He had chosen garments for himself that alluded to the memory of an officer’s uniform with its high neck, crisp tailoring, and matching gloves, as if he could not stand to wear the frivolity of loose civilian garments. His black hair had gone entirely white, though it was neatly cut and combed.

Arcann coughed pointedly.

“In accordance to section eighty-four, paragraph nine of the Eternal Empire Civil Servant’s handbook, in compliance with regulations concerning religious holidays, you are to be given a week’s leave for Izaxus.” Quinn did not look up from his terminal as he spoke. “The princesses will be visiting their grandfather on Dromund Kaas. They will not require a chaperone. You will be paid during your leave.”

Arcann arched his eyebrows. In truth, he had been so preoccupied with the constant clashes on Zakuul that he had forgotten what time of year it was. He found himself astonished that Senya had not even reminded him. “What about the other students?” He inquired. “Maveen and Shivawn are not –“

“ – You will not be so informal when speaking of my daughters, Tirall.” At last, blue eyes deigned to look upon Arcann’s face. “Tell Sana-Rae that she will take charge of the other students’ studies during your leave. You may go.”

It was odd; Zayetana had never corrected him in the same fashion, though she would have, technically, been within her rights. Arcann even, at times and in private, had used her own first name. It was power play, pure and simple – a reminder from Malavai Quinn to Arcann Tirall that one was the royal and the other was the common man and birth meant nothing between a consort and an abdicated emperor.

Arcann would allow it. For now. Offering a bob of his head, he turned and left the office, only allowing the excitement of the news to overtake him once he had fully departed Quinn’s presence. Oh, he knew exactly what he would do with a week of freedom.

He changed his direction and headed for the hangar, instead, and was immediately pleased to see his target performing a preflight check of one of the shuttles. Aric Jorgan wore his armor and held his helmet in his lap and seemed surprised to see him. “You joining the Havoc Guard, Tirall?” He asked, pausing in his work to shift toward the younger human. “We’re headed for the palace in ten.”

Arcann gave a shake of his head. “I was wondering if I might ride with the Guard to the capitol.”

“Huh? We’re not on a pleasure cruise. Bad time for a ridealong.”

Arcann knew that the cathar’s bluntness was very much a part of his normal personality. Considering what Jorgan was capable of saying, their interaction was downright friendly. “I can find my way back to Odessen. I want to…ah…purchase some supplies.”

Jorgan looked from the controls at his side to Arcann’s face and back again. Then, he exhaled a loud sigh. “We leave in ten, Tirall. Ten. You take anything more than a duffle bag, I’ll have something to say about it. We clear?”

Arcann shifted on his toes, grinning despite the gruffness of Aric’s orders. “Clear as day.”

“Good,” Jorgan grunted. “Oh, and – none of my business anyway – but if you need a place to bunk down, the Havoc guard has a barracks at the palace that we’re not using. Not very comfortable, but it’s clean and stocked with supplies.” Jamming a gloved hand into a pouch at his belt, he produced a keycard, which he extended toward Arcann. “This will get you in. Don’t lose that.”

Arcann’s grin widened. Slipping the keycard into one of his pockets, he turned and headed, at a fast walk, back to his quarters.

No sooner had the door shut behind him did he draw out his communicator, calling Jovi’s frequency. It took only two waiting tones for her to appear on the surface. “Arcann, hello. I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back in an hour?” she inquired. She held a datapad in one hand and a potted plant in the other.

“Of course.” He would just surprise her. That was the new plan. And if Jovi was too busy, he would simply find things for himself to do. “Talk to you then.”

Jovi grinned, then terminated the call, her slim figure vanishing from the surface of the communicator.

Arcann made quick work of packing for the impromptu trip: a small bag with a change of clothes and basic toiletries and medication, and a few meal bars in case he was unable to find food, or needed to trade food for anything unexpected. He slipped on a warm cloak, complete with a large hood that could be dropped down to cover most of his face, save for his nose and mouth. He added a pair of gloves that he usually wore when slipping down to Zakuul, and departed his small apartment, locking the door behind him.

“Master Arcann. Oh, Master Arcann, there you are.” Behind him piped up a high voice, and a few pairs of pattering feet.

Arcann turned, still smiling. The princesses, both dressed for travelling, nearly ran into an off-duty Republic soldier as they approached. Maveen, who had spoken, was carrying a wrapped package in one of her hands.

“Papa told us that you were going to Zakuul to celebrate Izaxus,” said Shivawn, coming to a stop next to him.

“That’s right.” Arcann ignored the fact that he needed to be quick, to catch the Havoc Guards’ transport down to the surface. He always had time for his students – _always_ – grown people and their schedules be damned.

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” said Maveen. “We were going to give you this present for Life Day, but we learned from our tutor that Zakuulans give gifts during Izaxus. Here you go.” She held out the gift in both hands.

Arcann found himself astounded. Was Quinn aware of this conspiracy between his daughters? “This is…very kind, you two. Thank you.” He took the package into his gloved hands, unwrapping it at once, having only a slightest bit of difficulty with the knot on the slim cord that held the package shut, for his left hand couldn’t quite get a grip in the way in which he was accustomed.

Inside lay a small blue leatheris pouch, tied with a strong, braided cord.

Maveen giggled. Shivawn gave one of her rare wide grins.

“This is incredible. Thank you both.” Oh, the astonishment at the fact that children, a pair of children, whose mother was once his bitter enemy, could be so considerate to him. At once, he tied it onto his belt, next to the sheath that held his lightsaber. “Look. It’s perfect.”

“Girls!” A familiar voice, shaped into a barked order, echoed from down the hall. “Come along. It’s time to depart.”

“We’re going to Grandfather’s house on Dromund Kaas. Bye!” Maveen stepped back, then turned, making quick speed for her father.

Shivawn lingered only a bit longer. She murmured, concern in her deep blue eyes, “Be careful on Zakuul. It’s dangerous.” And then, as if she did not care to linger long enough to hear Arcann’s reaction, she made long strides past a few scientists and down the corridor toward her father.

Arcann nodded once at Quinn, then started his own path toward the transport. Tucking the wrapping cloth into his duffle bag, he rested a hand on his new pouch as he walked. In the back of his mind set in a distinct chill; he had a feeling that, in the weeks ahead, he would use this pouch. He could not say how he knew this. But it seemed to have arrived in his hands when the galaxy needed to direct it into his path.

Fortunately, the Havoc Guard, in their black armor with red and blue stripes, had only started to board the carrier when he arrived in the hangar. Colonel Gavinara Hern, who made a powerful figure in civilian clothing, let alone imposing armor, gave him a nod and gestured at the opened door to the carrier. Her expression was not unfriendly, merely curious.

“Let’s get going.” She slammed shut the door behind the last of her soldiers. “I’ll debrief all of you on the way.”

Arcann scrambled into one of the open seats. A gand holding a datapad regarded him with his large eyes before returning his attention to his general.

Colonel Hern remained standing, holding on to one of the handholds, rather than sitting. She only wavered slightly as the carrier rose up into the air. “Incidents of vandalism and burglaries have rose in the past few weeks, especially surrounding and in the Palace of the Eternal Dragon. Even with the constant rotating guard patrols and security systems, the Hanging Gardens is in constant danger. We have civilians inside the facility, most unarmed.”

Arcann quietly wondered if Jovi armed herself even while she worked. How had he not heard that her teams were in constant danger?

“We need to identify weak points in the security of the Gardens and eliminate them,” continued Colonel Hern. “Also, neutralize any threats that arise. This is just a survey of the situation. We may be continued to be dispatched to the site as needs arise. The Hanging Gardens is a critical asset to the Eternal Empire. It must be protected at all costs. Yuun, you will meet with Aron Jacoby to analyze the Gardens’ security systems. The rest of you will work with Forex; he dispatched this morning and should already be on patrol.”

The gand sitting next to Arcann saluted the colonel.

“That’s all.” She offered a nod in Arcann’s direction. “Tirall here is just catching a ride down to Zakuul.”

It was enough to stifle any possible questions. It sufficed for Arcann. He gave a bob of his head in a way of thanks, and rested his hands on the top of his bag, which rested in his lap. It was somewhat difficult to believe that the Colonel and the Empress were distant cousins – the two women could not look and act less alike. One was statuesque and red-headed, the other pale and small. One had elegance in her fighting style, the other was brutal and crude – both, however, were effective in their own ways. And once, they had been on opposite sides of a war.

How complex life in the core worlds could be.

“I brought the rations. What do you want me to trade them for?” Aric murmured to the Colonel.

“Root vegetables. I’ll make that stew Mom used to make when I was a kid.” She adjusted the strap on her helmet as she spoke.

“That sounds delicious,” said a twi’lek whose name that Arcann did not know. “I’m going to trade for some fruit for a Life Day cake. It’s my wife’s favorite.”

“ _It is unfortunate that the Hanging Gardens have come too late, and do too little_ ,” chittered Yuun. “ _I have done the math. The Gardens could, in theory, feed all of Zakuul. It would take ten years for production to reach peak, however._ ”

“Seems like everything these days is just barely hanging on by fingernails,” murmured another cathar.

But Jovi was doing her best. For the past six months, she had barely left the Hanging Gardens. Arcann had come to visit her at every opportunity – and even then, he hadn’t been able to take as much leave as he wanted. The violence was escalating everywhere, the entire galaxy’s map dotted with pinpoint explosions. The hutts were speculating in basic survival needs – food, clothing, and easy shelter. And the Republic seemed to change leadership every passing week.

Arcann didn’t want to say it or think it – and even as the transport dropped out of hyperspace within close range of one of his home planet’s moons, even feeling the wordless dread struck him as blasphemy rolled in truth. Zakuul was dying rapidly. Every time he came to visit Jovi, more and more skyscrapers were missing from the sky. More and more lights blinked out. Greater and greater neighborhoods diminished into chunks of rock and twisted durasteel. Some neighborhoods and cities lost power and never regained it.

When Vitiate had taken Valkorion’s body, he lived in a stone hut with a thatched roof, one of the finest homes in his village. Now, in his absence, Zakuul raced to embrace the stone once again. Arcann found himself looking out at the nearest window, down at the planet below. The Spire, which was once lit up at all hours with bright light, now hid in the deepest well of shadow. The sight settled into his stomach and smoldered like the bonfires of old.

Arcann reached into the Force for Jovi, revealing his presence to her in a gentle, non-obtrusive way, and found her gentle energies. She responded with a touch – nothing more than a touch, but at least she knew that he was arriving. Smiling to himself – but only for the briefest of time, for he did not want to draw curiosity from the soldiers, he simply dwelled in the energies around him, waiting for the transport to land, for him to file out behind the soldiers and take stock of his surroundings.

He was in front of the palace, but what a transformation that the palace had undergone in the six months since he, Senya, and Zayetana had agreed to turn it into the Hanging Gardens. He could see the beginnings – up, up, up in the sky as far as he could see – to the structure itself. Windows had been sealed, some replaced with solar panels. Great rain catchers clung to the surfaces of the structure, as well as the unfortunate grouping of security cameras. Just above his head, an Alliance guard sat next to a waiting emplacement.

The sight did not give Arcann hope. On the contrary, it filled him with dread from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.

“I knew it.” Jovi’s voice filled with amusement as she stepped through one of the doors, nodding at the guard as she passed. “What are you doing here?” Her bright smile immediately chased away Arcann’s creeping fear.

“The Empress –“ Let him fail to give the Imperial Consort any credit for the matter. That would show him. “ – gave me a week’s leave for Izaxus. I thought I would –“ _Tell the truth. Tell the truth._ “ – make myself available to ah – give you a tour of the Holiday Market. If it’s running, with all of the shortages.”

_Well done, Arcann. Well done_.

The light of Jovi’s grin seemed to spread to her eyes, if only for a moment, before her businesslike expression returned to her face. “I would love to. Yes, it is running, though mostly on trade, I’ve heard. I do, of course, have work, but I can squeeze in some evenings free.” Bouncing on her metal toes once, she snapped her fingers, confirming what appeared to be a quick decision. “I’ll tell you what – wait right here. I’ll get my cloak and tell the team that I’m taking a long lunch. I’ll be no more than five minutes. I promise.”

Arcann inclined his head. “I will wait for you.”

“Great.” Jovi turned and headed back into the former palace, and Arcann could have sworn that there was both speed and bounce to her step.

But he could feel her excitement in the Force – she was thrilled to see him there. And despite the chill in the air around him, the warmth of that knowledge sustained him as he waited. After a moment or two, drops of cool water began to mist his chin. Arcann raised his head and saw that a light snowfall had begun, albeit with wet flakes that vanished the moment they touched the cracked pavement.

“Here I am – oh, it’s snowing.” Jovi slipped through the doors again, now in a thick green cloak with a hood, her rough hands clad in matching knitted gloves. Both set off her bright green eyes. “I saw snow in the forecast this morning. I could hardly believe it. I didn’t know that it snowed in this part of Zakuul.”

“It does, on occasion. Only this time of the year.” Arcann offered the crook of his left arm for Jovi to take, and felt his cheeks heat up as she slid her arm inside. “It will melt before morning, though. You should be aware of the quick freezing that can occur overnight. Don’t step on any patches of ice. You don’t know how treacherous they can be.”

“Oh, I do,” said Jovi with a sigh. “Do you want to know why I’m up to my ears in work? Doctor Oggrurobb slipped on the ice yesterday. He injured his back – and that’s worse for hutts than it is for humans. A lot worse. Hutts who have such injuries can’t be confined to bed – it puts pressure on the injury. They end up living in a floatation tank while they recover.”

“Mm.” Arcann lifted his head just enough so that he could catch a view of Jovi’s face without revealing his own. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And, as you can imagine, he’s bored out of his mind,” Jovi continued, deftly stepping over a large pothole in the street before them. “The medics won’t let him have a terminal right next to his tank – I can’t imagine why.” She rolled her eyes to the grey sky above, lips quirking in irony. “He’s talked them into letting him have a datapad. That means that every single idea that touches his mind, no matter how small – even the ones that have nothing to do with the Hanging Gardens – he has to send me a message. Or send the Empress one. Or the Imperial Consort.”

“Ah, yes. The Imperial Consort.” Arcann guided Jovi down another street. Now he saw holiday shoppers headed toward the market with bags in hand, which he assumed were filled with items for trade. They chatted excitedly amongst themselves and walked with purpose and joy, which to Arcann was a good sign. There was some sign of the old Zakuul in them.

His resilient, wonderful people. They would always be his people, even if he did not rule them.

“I take it that you two aren’t getting along,” murmured Jovi. Arcann felt her fingers tighten around his arm, the pressure of her digits against folds of fabric and durasteel.

“We’re not, but it’s not unexpected or undeserved,” Arcann replied, softening his voice as the crowds began to gather closer to him. “But even he can see that we have the same goals in mind. We want to see the Empress’s rule succeed and heal this world. We want to see his daughters become capable rulers and warriors.” And then, even as the memory of the events of the Iokath War blossomed within his mind, Arcann felt the darkness needle into his contented mood. “We both want to capture the traitor that neither of us anticipated.”

Jovi’s presence in the Force touched his. Arcann could not see her face – now, among the stalls and the smells and the crowds, it was dangerous to raise his hood – but he could feel her comfort, like a sweet and soft stroke of the fingers upon an ache, seeking to draw out the pain and to rub away the stain of insult. Merciful Scyva, he had made _certain_ to show his good intentions to Shan when he defected to the Eternal Alliance. Arcann had even found the man amiable and intelligent, and shared a joke or two with him. Had Shan not aided Zayetana in the building of the Alliance? Had he not spent his own time and energy and blood in the trenches of its inception? Why would he do such a thing as to betray them all?

“Oh, I want to look at these bags.” Jovi tugged at Arcann’s arm, and he followed her lead to a stall that held a wide variety of cloth and leatheris satchels. Arcann noticed that all of the bags had been made from several patches of older material, recycled into a new and useful item, likely from the finery that many Zakuulans wore on a daily basis. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. I know that you’re going to. You punish yourself too harshly, as I do.”

“True.” Arcann pretended to be interested in a small pouch not unlike the one that the princesses had gifted him with. “He will be found. I’ve asked a few old “friends” to look into the matter for me.” He knew that he could not be more specific; the proprietor of the stall sat nearby, sewing a shiny lining into a large backpack. “And the Empress has her resources.”

“Which are larger than either of us know.” Jovi, seeming satisfied with her examination of the wares, started toward the next stall. “How is your mother?”

“Oh. Ah, well.” Arcann found himself temporarily confused by the discussion shift, but he also knew that it wasn’t safe to get too deeply into the topic of Shan in a place where they would be overheard. “Very well, in fact. I’d say more, but not here. Let’s just say that it came as a surprise to me.”

Quinn was not the only member of the Empress’s family who had arrived on Odessen recently, though her father, Gabrien Hern, visited only for long weekends before returning to his home on Drommund Kaas. Arcann had faintly wondered why Hern seemed suddenly so interested in Odessen, despite being well-established in the Sith Empire as a revered composer of Sith Operas and a good friend of Empress Acina.

And then, Zayetana had simply let it slip that she had introduced the widowed Gabrien to Senya.

It was strange, to think of Senya in a happy relationship. The memory of Valkorion and Senya having any sort of marriage at all was a faint one for Arcann; it seemed that she, too, needed to heal from his destructive influence for years and years after. Now, she had a companion, and they mended their lives together, and drew up from the well of joy such delight that Arcann could taste in the Force whenever the two were together.

_Not unlike Jovi and I_ , Arcann thought, smiling quietly under his hood.

“That’s great news. Give her my best. We should buy her something for Izaxus. What would she like?” Jovi paused in front of another stall holding knitted dolls of all kinds.

Arcann found himself stunned, but standing there, amongst the crowds of shoppers, smiling even broader beneath his hood. Then again, would the people of Zakuul be able to recognize their former Emperor grinning with such joy, touched and stunned at the idea that his friend - _girlfriend? Companion? What were they?_ – thought of Senya having a gift for Izaxus.

“She doesn’t collect dolls,” he pointed out, his mind not on the conversation at hand. Instead, he considered their relationship. Never before had he even _had_ anything he would consider a romantic relationship. He had paramours and lovers but the affairs had been constructed of his power and money and topped with physical desire and attraction. But he and Jovi shared tender touches and held hands and hugged one another. They hadn’t even _kissed_ , and that was bizarre for a young man whose usual method of operation was to take a paramour to bed shortly after learning their name.

Had the Voss changed him so much?

“Would the girls like one, then? These are adorable.” Jovi chuckled as she picked up a hooded depiction of Scyva. “What is this one? A popular children’s holo character?”

The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, uh, that’s Mother Scyva.” Arcann reached over, deftly plucking the doll from her fingertips and returning it to its proper place.  
  
“Oh.” Jovi paled as she looked up, offering the proprietor a polite bow. “I intended no offense, friend. I come from the Core Worlds.”

It occurred to him then, even as he gently guided Jovi away from the booth, that she must have known so little about life on Zakuul, beyond the addiction to fame and finery, which had become so quickly a distant memory. “I have a question for you. How much do you know about Zakuul’s culture?”

“We were all given briefings when we joined the Alliance.” said Jovi, stepping now toward the food booths, stopping just inside a pavilion cleared of rubble and swept oddly clean. “I doubt they were sufficient. I’m not certain that a one-hour survey on a thousand years of culture would be.”

“You’re right, of course.” Arcann gave a shake of his head. “It’s not your fault.” He sighted a cart selling speared sausages and roasted vegetables. Just the mere sight set his mouth to watering, and burned his nose with a memory of spices and seared-black vegetables crunching in his teeth. It was an excuse to change the subject from the uncomfortable one. “Have you ever had one of our cones?”

“Ice cream cones?” Jovi asked.

“Oh no.” Arcann smiled down at her, grateful that she had taken the proverbial bait so easily. “This cone is a portable meal all in one. Let me show you.” He stepped up to the booth, carefully keeping the hood low over most of his face as he produced his credit chit. “Two, please. Light on the sauce, if you will.”

He guessed that Jovi might appreciate the artistry inherent in the crafting of the cones, and he was not disappointed at her reaction. She stood in rapt attention, her capable hands curling over the barrier between herself and the chef, watching as he sliced the skins of large vegetables with a dangerously sharp knife. No food replicator could truly replace the smooth taste of the oil spritzed across each skin, nor the crackle of each as they were carefully rolled out over a hot, open grill. The chef began to hum as he added the sausages, then the bright orange tubers cut into thin straws, and, at last, the creamy sauce. As a finale, he picked up each while they still sizzled, rolled them into cones, and deftly nudged each into a disposable cone of paper.

“Incredible.” Jovi applauded politely before taking the one offered to her.

“I think that the sauce takes away the flavor of the roasted vegetables.” Arcann took his own, and led the way out of the tent. Outside, the snow had stopped, though there remained a chill in the air. As he predicted, the ground had become damper with each tiny melted snowflake, but not so much that he gained mud on his boots, even after he left the paved area and made a path toward a secluded bench.

He paused, taking a bite of the vegetable cone, and surveyed the view before him. Once, this had been a tranquil garden off the main market – oh, he had never been there before, certainly, but he could tell from the dry fountains and limp, brown plants. A gazebo now stood with its roof caved in, but that single bench seemed to take stock of the lake before it, which, for the moment, was free of garbage.

Arcann gestured for Jovi to sit; she offered him a silent smile before he sunk down next to her. They were not so far away that they could not hear the hustle and bustle of the market beyond, but even those voices seemed hushed with the occasional sigh of ice-cold wind. He held the cone in his left hand, but the hot food stayed away the chill around them; not only that, but Jovi sat close enough that their hips touched, right to left, one of her small metal feet close to one of his large, booted ones.

And, as he breathed a sigh filled with the scent of spices, he felt at peace.

“Empress Zayetana asked me to be her Minister of Agriculture.” Jovi wiped a dot of sauce away from the corner of her mouth with her fingertips. “Can you believe it? Me?”

“And you accepted?” Arcann arched his eyebrows beneath his hood.

“No, of course not.” Jovi chewed and swallowed before she spoke again. “I’ve turned her down twice now. She told me she’s going to keep asking until I accept her offer.”

“But you would be perfect for the job,” he murmured, watching her face carefully, testing her presence within the Force. Jovi seemed calm. Comfortable. Both were moods he had hoped to evoke.

“You flatter me.” She smiled again, giving his nearest arm a pat. “All I want to do is to feed people.” She motioned toward the half-eaten cone in her hand. “I don’t want to spend my days submitting reports and sitting in meetings. What good will that do?”

She was so humble. Arcann found the reaction utterly bewildering. “You have the opportunity to direct others, to enact your dreams and plans. Don’t you see? You would no longer have Doctor Oggurobb standing in your way.”

“He’s never been a problem.” Jovi shook her head. “He told me when I first arrived on Odessen that he would tell me when I’d overstepped my boundaries in the organization. I never have.” She looked down at her food, selecting a slice of sausage to place in her mouth. “In any case, what the Empress needs is more funding, more workers, more hours in the day. She doesn’t need someone weighing every ounce of manure and buying up seeds from the Hutts.”

“But –“ Arcann found himself unsure of how to proceed and astounded so firmly into the surprising emotion that followed – admiration. “ – Are you being humble because you are a Jedi, or because you do not think that you can uphold the standards of the position?”

In stark contrast, Jovi seemed amused. “Neither. Throwing titles around won’t get the work done. Call me practical to a fault. I accept it.” She looked into his face, as if she were searching for something there, even ducking her head a bit so that she could see under the hood. It did not intimidate him to have her look at him this way. In fact, he realized in that space in time that it had been months since someone had looked at him this way, seeming to search his clear blue eyes for his thoughts and gently touching his presence within the Force. Had Senya been the last one? Had there been anyone other than Senya and Thexan to ever do so?

And then, she chuckled. “You have a bit of sauce on your cheek. Here.” With her gloved hand she reached up, her thumb brushing away the errant drop.

A surge of emotion burst from deep within Arcann at the friendly, nurturing gesture, so much that the finished meal began to burn within his stomach. Wonder and need became power that he was barely able to restrain, and did so with the tightest and most invisible bonds that his imagination could manage. Crushing the paper between his cybernetic fingers, he dropped it onto his lap, reached up, and gently took Jovi’s gloved hand into his.

The smile on her scarred face turned to gentle, soft delight. It seemed as though Zakuul’s sun remembered the day rather than cloaking itself in thick winter clouds, and moved to let its light upon the world, bringing gold and soft pinks into Jovi’s cheeks.

They were so close. _Merciful Scyva_ , Arcann’s thoughts whispered, daring not to shout, praying that he would not destroy this spell, this dream, this moment of quiet and curiosity laid bare. He braced himself for Jovi to suddenly pull away, for her to bring an end to this afternoon that had only just begun, that had blossomed from a day he had expected to be teaching on Odessen. It seemed that life, indeed, have a will of its own.

And so did Jovi, as she withdrew her hand from his – and oh, in that moment, Arcann felt ill and angry at himself all at once, and ready to sputter an apology for her discomfort. But no, what was she doing? Jovi tugged off her glove, and then – oh, he would have never imagined this next, no, how she reached for his cybernetic hand and slid off his own glove, so that their fingers could thread together again, flesh into warm metal, returning to his cheek, where, fearlessly, her thumb brushed over the deep scars.

Then was he thrilled and emboldened and leaned in to press his lips against hers, but she met him halfway and with a sigh through her nose, and when Arcann slid his arms around Jovi’s slim body, he knew that he had found home.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joy and terror on Zakuul as Jovi and Arcann have an unexpected end to their afternoon.

Eight

_I won’t say the oft-said word._

_It yawns wide with expectation_

_Sinks solid with appropriation_

_Bursts loudly with proclamation_

_So is the terror of the oft-said word._

_It is the sound that stirs the heart._

_Seekers ask for its divination_

_The bewildered wish for its explanation_

_I crave its declaration_

_So is the mystery of the oft-said word._

_Green eyes conjure its association_

_The scent of floral blooms your evocation_

_In my chest surges the conflagration_

_When my lips form the syllables of the oft-said word._

  * Unknown Zakuulan expatriate, _Poems of Penance_ , 3630 BBY



“I think I’ve passed the time that was acceptable for a long lunch,” Jovi said, drawing back to look at Arcann. Her lips were swollen and dark pink, her cheeks flushed red.

It occurred to Arcann that it had started snowing again and, if they were going to head back into the crowds of the market, that he had better put back on his gloves. With a chuckle of his own, and stooping down to retrieve them from the wet, cracked pavement, he slipped them on, one after another. “Will there be trouble for you?” He murmured, aware that the world was slightly spinning, that his voice was huskier than usual, but willing to be patient enough to let the sensation fade away.

“I don’t care about that very much.” Jovi worked at pushing her own hands into her gloves. “Oh…I never asked you if you have a place to stay. You can have my sofa, if you wish. And I can cook you breakfast tomorrow.” Her cheeks reddened even further with something that Arcann interpreted to be audacity.

It was not a strange offer, considering that they had spent a solid ten minutes kissing, each gesture ranging from soft nestles to explorations of lips and tongue. Arcann knew the softness of Jovi’s lips now, the surprise in the fact that Jovi even knew how to kiss well – _weren’t the Jedi supposed to be chaste?_ He would have to ask her later. But now that he had tasted the mere dawn of their kindled passion, he found himself craving more.

They couldn’t remain on the park bench for the entire day like a pair of teenagers dodging their parents. Arcann knew that he chanced danger every moment that he sat in the open – not to mention Jovi’s obligations.

“Only if I may brew the caf.” Arcann rose up, glad that he didn’t immediately lose his footing, and offered Jovi a hand to help in her rising.

“That sounds like a fair deal.” When she stood, Jovi laced her fingers through his, and Arcann dwelled in the glow of this simple, lovely gesture.

He knew that he couldn’t be a fool about this. He couldn’t keep her from returning to work – and realized that he had forgotten to check to see that she was, indeed, armed. But as they fell into step, walking closely and hand and hand, he glanced at her waistline. Indeed, Jovi’s saberstaff was clasped to her belt and secured into a sheath. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since she had used the weapon, even in training. He never heard of her speak of training – just meditation.

He resolved to change that, should she be willing.

He had thought that Jovi and the rest of the Hanging Gardens team lived on the grounds – that proved to be an incorrect assumption. Instead he found himself in an unfamiliar walkway near a skytrooper factory. Jovi led the way into a distant cousin of the market that they had departed – this one was filled with stooped shoulders and sad eyes. Most of the booths seemed to double as temporary shelters – they held children in rags reading their lessons from cracked datapads, old men huddled over rubbish bin cooking fires, and even the occasional droid hard at work picking through piles of small machine parts.

“In here.” Jovi murmured, tugging Arcann’s hand in the direction of a pile of old droid parts. But the pile was parted in two – one wouldn’t have noticed this unless they were practically in front of it, with their feet between a battery pack and an empty spindle that must have once carried a great deal of wire. A door in the stained marble wall opened when Jovi yanked on the old-fashioned knob, and Arcann followed into a stairwell lit just enough so that he could see his hands in front of his face.

Jovi paused in the semidarkness, presumably to allow her eyes to adjust (for while Arcann was grateful). He heard her draw a long, slow breath and let it out. “I’ve implored the building superintendent to fix the light arrays in here. He has yet to act on my request.”  
  
“Which is a polite way of saying that he hasn’t listened to you.” Arcann felt her unease in the Force. This darkness terrified her, and she had to face it every day, on the way home. He gave her hand a squeeze and stepped forward, his free hand’s fingers finding the door of the lift and, moments later, the button that called it.

“I _am_ a Jedi, after all.” Jovi squeezed Arcann’s hand back, and he could feel some of her fear bleed away. “I couldn’t throw a boulder at him and demand that he do his job. What would the Grandmaster think?”

After a whir and a whine, the doors to the lift slid open, revealing a simple metallic box with rickety hand rails and, thankfully, a fairly bright light source that almost dazzled his eyes. Jovi tugged Arcann inside, allowing the doors to close behind them before she made a selection on the glowing screen set into the wall. The elevator began a slow and surprisingly steady ascent.

“I have a holoviewer – a cheap one, but it suffices.” Jovi reached out to sweep her hood from her shoulders. “There’s some snacks and drinks in the cooler. That should keep you entertained until I finish my shift.” Smiling, she gave Arcann’s hand a squeeze again.

Arcann couldn’t help but rumble a chuckle at the suggestion that he needed _entertaining_. If he was bored, he could simply meditate. Or take a nap – a rare privilege in his world. “Do you get Sports Pri –“

He never finished the thought. There was an incredible roar, followed by the world rocking, jerking, sending him onto his hands and knees as fine particles filled the air. The light that had given them comfort vanished in an instant, plunging them into darkness. Arcann’s heart pounded in his throat, and he readied himself to use all of the Force power he could muster to stop the elevator from falling, should it fall, or should he fall out of it.

“Arcann!” Jovi called out in the darkness.  
  
He assessed his own health quickly – aside for the usual ache in his left shoulder, there was no undue pain. Arcann sat carefully on the floor, feeling it with his hands. They were still in the elevator, but it was stuck at an angle, the end with the doors pitched downward. He did not know what condition the doors were in.  
  
But he would explore that possibility later.  
  
“I’m here. I’m fine.” A new horror struck him as he reached out in the darkness, seeking Jovi there. It pushed down on his chest, an invisible weight that threatened to steal breath and life from him all at once. As did it seem that terror became water, manifesting in sweat and an invisible wave that set his fingers to trembling and knees to rocking. “Jovi?”

“I...I’m alright…give me a moment…”

And in that moment, the temperature of the elevator rose even as the darkness declined. But it was not a harsh light that met Arcann’s eyes – not like the one that had hung above their heads. This one came from the kneeling figure of Jovi herself. Her hands were folded in a meditative position, her face – dirty from whatever dust or grime hung in the air, bowed with her chin against her chest.

Arcann was not sure if he could do the same. Instead, he caught his breath and looked around and into the shadows, using Jovi’s Force presence as an opportunity to take stock of their situation. Indeed, the elevator was tilted, and fortunately, the doors had not buckled. The floor seemed solid, as well, but the wire grate that made up the ceiling had completely caved in, casting a pool of light upon the floor beneath them.

Jovi’s inner light faded, leaving them in semi-darkness now. Arcann turned his head to look at her. In the Force, he could feel her fear, but it was not the same paralysis at the edge of a sudden fall, the only way he could describe feeling her panic attacks.

He stretched out both hands to her, fingers pushing in the shadows as if they were malleable. In the distance and sudden quiet around them, screams rose up, followed by a distant roar that cut them into silence once again. Jovi’s fingers folded into his before they withdrew.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” It was almost as if Jovi was convincing herself within her blanket of shadow. “I’m going to call the team. I need to find out what happened.”

“You do that. I’m –“ Another grumble in the distance was punctuated by sharp shouts. Fear quivered within Arcann’s stomach as he looked to the ceiling again. “I’m going to get us out of this lift.”

The lift had handrails and neither appeared to be damaged beyond a few scratches. Arcann tested his weight on one with a foot, then hoisted himself up, legs spanning the width of the lift as he pulled himself into the hole in the ceiling. He hated at once that he could see the sky in the distance, through the shattered roof of the building, but he could also see a maintenance hook and the panel that activated it. It gave them a chance of escape, at least. Below him, the soft tone of a communicator repeated a few times before snapping quiet.

“Come.” Stretching out on his belly, Arcann hung his left arm down into the elevator. He felt Jovi grab on, and he lifted her upward until she could pull herself up next to him. “The maintenance hook will take us up to a floor. We can take the stairs down to the ground level.”

Jovi grunted with the effort of lifting herself up, looking then at the hook’s panel above them. “Comms are down,” she murmured. Stretching out her hand, she summoned enough Force to smash the panel, sending a hook and a rope tumbling down to land next to them.

Arcann nodded at her, slipping his right arm around her waist and drawing her close to his chest. The hook in his hand, he cast it toward its accompanying panel. With a hiss through the air, it clicked into place. A single tug was enough to activate the rope, sending them flying through the dusty air, Jovi’s fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic, upward with stomach-clenching speed to the platform twenty meters above.

Arcann dropped his hold on the rope. He heard the distinct sound of a lightsaber activating – for the first time, he saw Jovi with hers in hand, the blue light from the twin blades illuminating the alcove in which they stood. Thrusting it between the closed doors of the damaged lift opening, she slid it downward until both relented, rocking backwards at awkward angles, leaving a large enough space for them to slip through. The blades slid away and the polesaber returned to her belt; Jovi bent over and managed to squeeze through the hole. Arcann followed, drawing his own lightsaber to cast light on the darkened hallway beyond.

Doors seemed to lead into individual apartments, but some of those doors had fallen off their connectors. A child screamed with fright as she clutched her mother’s tunic; both raced toward a door held open by an elderly twi’lek. Jovi silently nodded at this door and Arcann followed, as quickly as they were able, trying not to sneeze from the sheer amount of dust motes almost choking the air.

No sooner did they reach the stairwell did Arcann’s communicator begin to tone. He held the door open for Jovi, entered it himself, and began to climb down the stairs with a torrent of horrified looking people of a wide variety of races, some carrying bags or fastening cloaks around their shoulders. A glance down at the communicator, and he activated the button that let the call stream to his earpiece instead.

“Arcann,” said Senya, her voice tight and worried. “Empress Zayetana is receiving reports of a bombing in the capitol. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Arcann paused when Jovi stopped in place to help up a woman who had fallen down, resuming his path once the woman returned to her feet. “We’re both fine. It was a bomb?”

“Preliminary reports say that it might have been several,” Senya murmured in his ear. “No one has claimed responsibility. Yet.”

“Is that your mother?” Jovi let an elderly man with a walking stick move ahead of her. “Tell her that we’re going to evacuate these people to the palace.”  
  
Arcann’s lips tightened. He didn’t want to escort these people through the streets of the capitol which, undoubtedly, would prove to be a challenge. And who knew if their assailants, the ones that had planted the bombs, would be outside, waiting for people to flee into the streets, people who would be carrying weak blasters at the very best and be completely unarmed at worst, so that they could be easily cut down?

Why would someone bomb civilians? It seemed to be the most cowardly sort of act, to target innocents in order to deal harm to an Empress who could defend them from an ocean’s harm by herself.

“We’re taking the people in Jovi’s building to the palace.” Arcann tugged his hood lower over his eyes. This was certain to be trouble, but he had no choice. Scyva preserve and keep him if someone recognized him! “Can you tell the Hanging Gardens to expect us?”

“I will,” Senya said. “Be careful, Arcann.”

“No promises.” Arcann followed the flood of refugees out of the stairwell, into the marketplace that they had passed through just moments before. Now, however, it was literally a field of despair and blood, of the bodies of some of the stall owners broken and impaled on wreckage.

He did not allow himself to spend a second considering the dead. Moving away from the flood of misery, he drew his lightsaber again. He was about to yell out to the residents of the apartment building, when Jovi spoke over him in tones that he had never heard her use, or ones he would not have thought possible of her:

“Follow me!” Jovi shouted, also igniting her own lightsaber. “We’re going to the Palace. You’ll find shelter there!”

A murmur snaked through the crowd, peppered by the weeping of children and the groans of the injured. Arcann moved out onto the main street and, for a moment, found himself paused in horror.

Oh, his homeworld had never been the same after the war, after Vaylin’s attack on her own people, after Firebrand’s chaotic dance with droids and skyscrapers, after a war that had revealed Zakuul to the galaxy and then made it mutable by it. But, just this afternoon, he and Jovi were able to navigate it, to show their love through the soft, slow kisses in the park. It was as if their shopping and courting, these tender and innocent moments, had transpired on another planet, in another star system, or maybe in the times that his ancestors had looked up at the stars and dreamed of travelling there.

Hills of rubble had turned into mountains, parks into fields, empty fountains filled now with rocks and bodies and blood.

“Come on!” Jovi did not dare say Arcann’s name. She put away her lightsaber so that she could offer a shoulder for an old man to lean on, his thin legs scrambling to keep up with her pace.

Arcann forced himself into the present, and waved on the residents of the building, and whomever joined them, a cautious eye beyond and around the crowd. A sudden hunger rose up from within him, up from his belly and into his mouth – oh, he wanted the bombers to show themselves. He wanted the blaster fire to ring out in the late afternoon chill. He craved to impale someone – a Herald of Zildrog, perhaps, right upon his shining blade, through the belly and out the back, leaving them to die quickly and painfully, meting justice to the people that now wept and scrambled over hills and over the corpses of their neighbors.

But not one showed themselves. Not minutes later, not an hour later, when they managed to reach the palace and he and Jovi held the doors open wide for the sixty-three people that stumbled and groaned their way in. And, once there, he saw that they were not alone – no, the Royal Havoc Guard had gathered their own flock of the exhausted and injured, of the weeping and trembling. Arcann exchanged nods with Aric Jorgan, who was taking the names of those that filed to the podium by which he stood. General Hern guided groups into the lifts ten at a time; fortunately, as the palace was blast resistant even from high-powered orbital bombardments, these lifts seemed to work seamlessly.

“There’s plenty of room for them,” Jovi said loud enough for Arcann to hear. “There’s rooms we haven’t even touched, and food we haven’t distributed yet.”

Arcann’s communicator chimed again. He slipped through the crowd and managed his way toward an adjacent corridor, which was filled with brand new monitors (though he could not, at a glance, divine their purpose, he assumed that they had something to do with the gardens). Drawing out the communicator from his cloak, he activated it. The holographic form of Empress Zayetana appeared on the surface; Jovi slipped up and behind Arcann to listen.

“Good, you’re both here,” said Zayetana, her lips set into a grim line upon her pale face. “The Heralds of Zildrog have claimed responsibility for the bombing. We may have also received intelligence from inside of the cult, which we are confirming right now. Senya told me that you both have refugees?”

“About sixty or so,” Jovi replied with a polite bow of her head.

“Good. The Royal Havoc Squad estimates about a hundred of their own.” Zayetana rolled her shoulders back as she spoke. “Jovi, cease normal operation of the Hanging Gardens. We don’t want to make the palace and the refugees a bigger target for the Heralds than they already are. I need you both, and the Havoc Guard, to remain at the palace for now. “

“But, your Imperial Majesty,” Jovi began, moving out from behind Arcann. He adjusted the communicator, holding it before Jovi so that she could more easily speak to Zayetana. “There are seedlings that require constant care –“

“- And there are people that require food, water, and medical attention.” Zayetana interrupted her. “We must use our limited resources to see to those immediate needs.”

Jovi dropped her gaze to the floor, wordlessly nodding her head.

“We’ll remain here until you tell us otherwise.” Arcann adjusted the communicator so that only his figure would be seen.

“I’ll keep you updated.” Zayetana clasped her hands behind her back. “Zayetana out.”

The holocommunicator went dark. Arcann tucked it away and raised his gaze, watching as Jovi stepped past him, pushed open a set of double doors beyond, and vanished between them. He followed, slowly, the overlapping of talking and sobbing becoming quieter and quieter as he moved away from the atrium.

The chamber beyond had been transformed into a sort of control room. Arcann paused in the doorway and simply watched Jovi, watching as she moved past three holoterminals, turning each on. One by one, they blazed to life, a different channel displaying a different reporter speaking of the same news, their voices rushing across one another like water tumbling over sharp rock.

“…the Eternal Alliance reports that the Heralds of Zildrog are claiming responsibility…”

“…Emperor Valkorion Memorial Hospital is closing its Emergency Care ward due to a flood of injured people…”

“…preliminary death tolls in the thousands…”

Arcann followed Jovi at a distance, his steps slow and nearly silent.

Jovi stopped before the largest terminal in the room, drawing a keycard out of a pocket in her cloak. Swiping it in a slot, she returned it to its place, then her fingers began to fly across the keyboard. They trembled at each command. Her shoulders slumped. Then, one by one, red lights began to appear on the terminal, blinking in unison, first one, then five, then more than Arcann could easily count.

Jovi put a hand over her mouth, uttering a sob between her shaking fingers.

The news on the holoterminal suddenly showed the same image, all in unison – a person in a hood and cloak, their mask a skull-like effigy of Zildrog in his form of Death.

“The Heralds of Zildrog claim responsibility for the fifty-five bombs that detonated in the capitol city at fifteen-thirty local time.” The voice was modulated and robotic, disguising the speaker. “The Heralds of Zildrog oppose the Eternal Alliance’s pillaging of our homeworld. We will not stand for the false Empresss’s protection of former Emperor Arcann, whose crimes against the Zakuulan people are immeasurable.”

Arcann found himself motionless before the terminals, unable to tear his gaze away from the synchronized screens. Within his chest, his heart began to hammer so hard that the fury in his stomach melted into nausea.

“Before the arrival of the so-called Darth Tempest and Darth Maul and their violence against our Eternal Emperor, which resulted in the loss of his life, Zakuul was the most glorious planet in our galaxy. It shall return to glory again, or perish in flames. People of Zakuul, do not support the false Empress. Oust the influence of the Core Worlds wherever you see it. Should they leave, our Glorious Lord will show mercy. Until that happens, he will continue to sow chaos throughout our world.”

The face flickered away, vanishing from the three screens. The three different reporters appeared again, their voices surging in horror, eyes wide, their voices once again discordant.

Arcann closed his eyes as the room swam before him, as their peaceful lunch threatened to leave his belly. Even as fear pushed forth, he forced it back. He sought peace, even as tears burned within his eyelids. He had known – not feared, but been convinced – that the Empress’s mercy for him would have a price. And now, the debt required its payment.

He did not want to be in this laboratory anymore – or this palace, for that matter, but the Empress had ordered him to remain. He wanted to flee from Zakuul and away from anyone that might –

Flee from Zakuul. He could do that – in spirit, perhaps, but not in deed.

Jovi’s hands slipped around him, pulling him into an embrace, her kisses upon his scarred cheek soft and wet from tears. And, in his darkness, he took one of her small, rough hands.

“Follow me,” he murmured.

Arcann opened his eyes, unable to look at Jovi’s face as he tugged at her hand, as he led her to the nearby private lift and the keypad within. Had the Hanging Gardens crew, or Zayetana, changed his private code? His fingers flew across the keys, relieved when the lift closed, rising up, up, away from the misery, away from the pain, away from the rubble and the Heralds of Zildrog and his suffering people.

Jovi slipped her free hand beneath his chin and turned his face toward hers. He saw that her face was streaked with tears, her scarred cheeks rosy from crying; the sight caused his own misery to spill forth from his ocean-blue eyes.

Jovi let out a soft sob, cradling his chin now, drawing his face to hers for a kiss that was soft and warm, damp and smelling of salt and misery and smoke and dust. Arcann closed his eyes, aware of her hands moving away from his, splaying over his chest, pushing beneath folds of cloth and massaging taut muscles in wide circles.

He understood. A groan caught in his throat. How long had it been since someone, anyone touched him like this? And never, ever like this – in misery and seeking soft and warm comfort from a body that was now pressed against his.

The doors opened, and their arrival – and where they had arrived to – caused Jovi to pause and draw a soft breath.

Arcann had rarely used the solarium during his reign. It had felt bizarre to go up there, to this tower next to the Eternal Throne’s audience chamber, to this place occupied by only a settee and a table on which drinks could be placed. It had been Valkorion’s refuge, not Arcann’s – and he certainly had never been invited there before his father’s death.

The palace no longer belonged to him, but it was their refuge now. They were no longer _on_ Zakuul, but _above_ it – the ailing planet below becoming a pageant of twinkling lights, of great fluffy clouds and bright green marshes, with the occasional snake of an azure river or lake before the single ocean yawned wide in deep blue.

Arcann stepped out of the lift, crossing around the crimson settee to stand with windows on all sides of him, below and above. He tilted up his head, looking first at the throne room, its circular orb of glimmering windows casting a shadow upon the solarium, and then at the stars beyond, at their own sun vanishing behind the planet and leaving behind a handful of golden rays.

But Jovi was coming to stand next to him, reaching up, her hand turning his face to hers. And there, he saw honesty and watery green eyes – red around the edges from either tears or irritation from dust and smoke. Words seemed unnecessary; a well of misery yawned beneath them on the planet’s surface.

Arcann sought to brush a thumb across Jovi’s lips. In the Force, her pain – no, their _shared_ pain -  ached in the air around them. His hands, metaphorically stained with blood of millions, became architects of comfort, stroking lines down her scarred cheeks. Jovi did not remain passive during this time – no, her own touches of his chest, his shoulders, and his neck resembled the warm ocean’s waves in the majesty of life in the depths beyond. They kissed before Arcann even realized that he had stooped to meet her lips. There, in his own darkness of closed eyelids, the galaxy did not matter. Zakuul did not matter. Even the inherited solarium did not matter, nor did the being that once claimed ownership to its panes and bolts. This shard of a dimension in the infinite bounds of thousands of universes was their shelter. Their blanket. Their place, alone.

Jovi spoke but did not change the quality of the silence; her whispered words were but prayers in a shrine, even though Arcann never imagined their likeness to pass her lips: “Take comfort in me, Arcann.”

Arcann opened his eyes. His own mouth parted, eyes blurring with tears again as a surprised breath escaped him. The reaction from his body was confusing and needful all at once, relieved and wanting. “If this is what you want,” he rumbled, his voice cracking. “you will always find the same in me.”

Had he meant to say ‘always’? It seemed right to say this. But even as she rose up on her metal tiptoes to nuzzle the soft flesh underneath his tunic’s collar, she seemed only spurred on by his words. And in that moment, Arcann thought of nothing but her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone that has read another fic I've written, Daystar, might see a familiar location. And those two scenes are purposely juxtaposed. Heh.
> 
> This chapter and the next one took a long time for me to write due to the fact that Jedi Under Siege completely changed how I'd intended on ending this fic. Originally, I was going to end with the dissolution of the Alliance. As that's not compliant with Jedi Under Siege, I have a new ending in mind. But it may take a bit longer to wind my way there.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcann looks for forgiveness for someone other than himself; Jovi seeks to put down her own roots. Spoilers for the Nathema Conspiracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Torian and Vette both survive, dammit. 2) The scene that gives this fic the mature rating is in this chapter, so be aware.

Chapter Nine

_Way back when we could have run_

_With our backs warm to the sun_

_Hide on me;_

_Hide in me._

_Now we slam shut our doors_

_Throw ourselves on our floors_

_Hide on me;_

_Hide in me._

_There is no place for us_

_In the galaxy, there is no place for us,_

_In the people that know us_

_Or think that they know us_

_Only we really know us_

_As us._

_There’s a palace in my head_

_Twisted sheets in our bed_

_Hide on me;_

_Hide in me._

_This chance that we’ve got_

_Running, ready or not_

_Hide on me;_

_Hide in me._

_Right here._

  * Unknown Zakuulan expatriate, _Poems of Penance_ , 3630 BBY



Arcann sunk to the ground, his tunic a contrast to the transparisteel beneath his feet (so clean, forever gleaming and without flaw, ruined somehow by the fall of dusty fabric indented with patches and small caresses of needle and thread.) He tugged Jovi down with him. Perhaps the movement itself was inelegant, but he would never remember it that way, what it sounded like when her durasteel feet slipped off of the ground and then landed, toes first, with a clang. Arcann heard it as a hollow ring; he could process nothing else. The heat was upon his face and Jovi’s slight weight shifted atop of him, straddling his hips, hands planted next to his ears, before he and Jovi were connected again, lips against lips.

Jovi. Honest Jovi. Lovely Jovi. Brilliant Jovi. His safety. His shelter. Did she feel the same way? Did she feel her own mind surge even as her capable fingers tugged at the fastenings on his tunic, aware that behind a dam of control held fast wild emotions, dangerous emotions – a surging need for relief bordering on a flood of tears. In the fever that grew within his mind, Arcann’s horror mixed with want – no. He could not let go of the despair behind his eyes. He instead opened wide his arms and his lips, accepting her hot and needful kisses, realizing at once when she had paused to linger and then entering the battle with his own.

Battle? No, this was no battle. Oh, how he had become accustomed to seeing absolutely everything as a battle, everything as a struggle, everything purchased with pain and grit shoving itself painfully and darkly beneath his fingernails. This moment, where his fingers forced open the fastenings on her robes so that he could suckle at her throat – it was mutual surrender. Mutual surrender, a concept that did not exist in war. There was impasse and siege and treaties, but this was none of the three.

Surrender. It did not seem so bad now – not as bad as he once believed that it had been. There was no passivity in this surrender, not when he felt the fury rising within his chest and hips and he needed – oh, how he needed – to move them in the wave and the heartbeat of life. And so, planting a heel on the transparent ground, so he did, grunting as he turned both of them over, Jovi gasping in surprise but delight coloring her pale cheeks. It was that moment that he looked deeply into her beautiful green eyes and found her pupils dilated, and in the Force, it was as if a door had been flung wide in the darkness, revealing a bright and glorious dawn –

The Force.

How long had it been since he’d done this with a Force user? Socialites did not tend to be Force sensitive – and if they were, there was little power behind their eyes. The illumination Arcann’s soul became bathed in surrounded him in warmth and ease all at once. He could have been in his bed, wrapped in a blanket, at peace with the galaxy and with himself. And, even as he reached down to yank free the fastenings on his trousers, he projected that same softness back at Jovi _– this is how you make me feel. I am at home with you. You know my sins and you have not fled from me_. _You are radiance in the darkness of this galaxy_.

Fabric pulled from beneath him – Arcann realized within the recesses of his mind that Jovi was tugging on her tunic, and he shifted onto his knees to allow her better access to her clothing. Quick, hot breaths pushed from her parted, scarred lips even as her hands fought with fastenings and folds of dusty cloth; Arcann couldn’t just wait, not with the need growing inside his belly and within the Force, causing him to return to her lips with renewed vigor. But the long moment of anticipation ended when the stretching of clothes and the clicking of metal buttons ceased. Arcann settled between Jovi’s legs. Their bare bellies and thighs came together, folds of heated and sensitive skin sliding over his own. He longed to see her naked, to trace her scars and let her do the same of him, to make a story of every one of his brightly colored tattoos, to learn the scent of her skin through soft sighs and nuzzles and strokes with both hands, cybernetic and flesh.

But even as Arcann touched her, fingers slipping down through curling hair and between wet lips, she sighed an unexpected command: “Now, Arcann. I need you inside me -  now.”

It was shocking and bold, and sent away his last belief about the chaste lives of Jedi – or, at least, about Jovi. And how she followed by opening herself to him – he found himself unable to think for several seconds, stalled in thoughts and intentions – how he would have been grateful to pleasure her for hours on end. But this wasn’t private quarters. And through his lustful and needful thoughts, something occurred to him – was there a camera in the solarium? Someone could be watching.

He decided that he didn’t care. Let them watch.

Let them hear him whisper, in silent devotion: “Are you certain?” Because he wouldn’t turn this moment into one that Jovi would regret – no.

Let him hear her whisper, warm in his ear, and let them see her accompanied response: “Yes, Arcann.” Her lips brushed his scarred ear and settled it there, nipping with the tips of her teeth.

For the first time in his life, he felt himself utterly elated. In the Force, his presence scattered and melded again only to repeat the process time and again, until she was there – she gathered him, she whose inner light was green – the color of life, the color of renewal. She planted him, and he grew; he entered her and melded with her. The universe swelled around them, caught in the music of their heartbeats and the sunlight of their union.

Arcann opened his eyes, his lips parted, and saw that she, too, was euphoric.

He caused no pain. He inflicted no hurt. There was simply joy in the way that they moved and moaned, in the whisperings of their names, over and over, like a chant, a philosophy that was taught, over and over again, since the dawning of the galaxy.

Zakuul cried out with pain. Arcann and Jovi came together and fell apart and lay on the floor of the solarium, tangled in one another, and, for a moment, at rest and at peace.

 

*****

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Sheets of water covered the dark windows, flowing thick and parting before running into massive rivulets as thick as Arcann’s hand.

“Let’s do another one.” Jovi threaded her fingers through Arcann’s cybernetic ones.

“Mm.” Arcann’s gaze rested on the nearest window. Beneath the dusty duvet, his body felt both heavy and comfortably warm. He didn’t even notice that they lay on the floor of a cold laboratory; they had constructed a nest of the blankets and pillows retrieved from Jovi’s apartment. Crates crammed with her possessions lay scattered and stacked around them, acting as a makeshift privacy screen and blocking the view from the far door.

He would have never believed, after his defeat on his flagship over a year before, that he would ever spend another night in the Palace of the Eternal Dragon. And yet, there he was and there they were, taking a much needed break from the misery on the floors above, from the refugees in the bedrooms and chambers.

“Your home planet this time?” Arcann smiled, his eyelids drooping as Jovi nuzzled his bare shoulder before settling down at his side once more. It occurred to him that they probably should be rising to help the relief effort – Arcann harvesting whatever vegetables and mushrooms he could from the dried and dying planters before cooking them into whatever meals he could assemble. Jovi would then deliver the meals to the refugees, take empty bowls and utensils, and deliver them to two droids, who washed and prepared them for the next meal.

He didn’t want to leave the makeshift bed. Arcann’s first inclination was to think that they deserved this moment of quiet, private bliss, even if the next emotion to follow such a resolution was a stab of guilt.

“Balmorra or Tython?” Jovi chuckled softly. “Tython might be easier. You can’t write poetry about mud and colicoids.”

Arcann uttered a mock-gasp of offense. “Have some faith.” Clearing his throat, he composed what he could, in that moment: “ _Even in the upturned rivets of war bloom blades of grass –_ “

“ _The bulbs of hedge roses sprout in burned bomb casings_.” Jovi frowned after she finished speaking. “There are too many syllables in that one, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” Arcann drew their clasped hands to his lips, so he could brush them across the rough skin on the back of Jovi’s. “’Burned bomb casings’ – I do like that bit of alliteration. We could shorten it to ‘ _The bulbs sprout in burned bomb casings_ ’.”

“ _Even in the rivets of war bloom blades of grass. The bulbs sprout in burned bomb casings_ ,” said Jovi. “ _Life lingers in the line of fire on Balmorra_.”

“That’s good.” Arcann shifted so that he could look down at Jovi’s face. “Better than the one we wrote about Zakuul. We should –“

He stopped short as he heard the door to the lab whoosh open. It was not footsteps that followed, however, but the quiet whirr of machinery. Jovi sat up, covering her bare flesh with one of the blankets, tucking it under her arms. Arcann put a finger to his lips.

The beeps that followed came from an astromech – “ _Arcann + Jovi = present and online?_ ”

Arcann stood up, grunting from the complaining of his joints, sighting the familiar blue and white paint of T7-01. “Hello, T7,” he greeted the droid. “What’s the matter?”

T7 rolled forward and toward their nest, avoiding the piles of tools and Jovi’s possessions. “ _Empress Zayetana = ordered all nonessential Alliance personnel to leave Zakuul // Arcann = visiting planet // Jovi = project temporarily suspended // Arcann + Jovi = must leave Zakuul_.”

“Is she giving up on Zakuul?” Jovi had pulled on her undergarments and was reaching for her robes.

T7 made a noise that indicated an error. “ _Empress Zayetana = reorganize Alliance personnel on Odessen and redeploy // Alliance shuttle * 5 incoming to provide transportation // Alliance transport ETA = 32 minutes 54 seconds._ ”

“Temporarily suspended. That’s better than ‘terminated’.” Jovi bent down and handed Arcann his undergarments and tunic. “Can you help me organize my things? I don’t see them allowing me to take all of my possessions back with me. I need to choose the essentials.”

Their repose was destroyed, but Arcann knew that they could recapture it – maybe even easier than they would on Zakuul – once they returned to Odessen. For now, he readied himself to be strong for Jovi – _his lover_ , oh, just calling her that, albeit silently, set his heart racing and his soul singing – and capable of helping her choose the possessions she would take with her.

“ _Incoming recording from Lord Lana Beniko._ ” T7 rolled backward a few paces, then cast a small projection upon one of the cleaner tabletops. Lana’s figure appeared, standing tall, hands behind her back.

“Attention: all Alliance personnel. Due to new intelligence regarding the Heralds of Zakuul and their activities, all nonessential personnel must withdraw from Zakuul immediately. Crews will be arriving within the hour to remove Alliance assets from the planet’s surfaces. Limited space will be available for personal belongings, which can be left in the entry corridor of the Hanging Gardens. We will send further updates and transport schedules as information becomes available. Lana Beniko, out.”

Her figure vanished.

“ _T7 = help Jovi with belongings // T7 = will summon other droids to assist_.” The astromech backed up, uttering a few small beeps. “ _Arcann = needs to replace personal shielding // Humans = not function at optimum capacity without personal shielding._ ”

“Personal…shielding?” Arcann frowned.

Jovi giggled, covering her mouth. “He means that you should put your clothes on, dear.”

It occurred to Arcann only then that he was standing in the middle of the lab, naked, clasping his clothes, which were balled up in one hand. “Oh.” He said, placing the tunic quickly on the table where Lana’s holographic figure had stood, and started to pull on his undergarments.

“ _T7 = reminded Jedi Battlemaster’s doctor to deploy personal shielding all the time_.” T7 almost seemed to be talking to himself as he departed. “ _Doc = preferred offline maintenance without._ ”

“That sounds like a story to ask Lord Beniko’s wife about,” murmured Jovi. She raised her gaze to the piles of crates, uttering a sigh. “Now I have to choose what is important and what is not. Datapads, clothes…”

A great deal had transpired in a very few minutes. Arcann had to order the information in his mind, and used the time he took to dress before speaking again. He could sense Zayetana in the Force, as well as Lana – both were tense and worried at the same time. Lana was more distant to him, more shielded, but the so-called Outlander, now the Empress of Zakuul – he had a different connection with her. He had been in her mind. He could tell when she was upset about someone she truly cared about. “This has to do with Theron Shan.”

“What?” Jovi put a potted plant next to a crate overfilled with clothes and datapads. “How do you know?”

“She is concerned about someone close to her – but not too close.” He continued to listen within the Force, turning his attention instead to her daughters, seeking to confirm his suspicions. One of them was asleep, one was calm. “If it were a member of her family, she would be far more distressed.”

Arcann knew that he should aid Jovi in the organization of her possessions, but he found himself halted in place by the notion, by the revelation that the Empress was conflicted. He himself had just begun to know Shan before he betrayed the Alliance. It never seemed completely right to him, though, how the betrayal transpired, the excuses that Shan had given for his defection. Whenever they had come in contact with each other afterwards, Shan seemed to take the greatest effort not to directly strike at Zayetana. Each attack was either implemented by another, or made in such a way that there was an incredibly high chance of failure.

“The situation on Zakuul has deteriorated,” Arcann noted to Jovi, half trying to convince himself of his assumption. “If Shan was truly working on the inside of the Heralds of Zildrog, this would be the time for him to show his hand. I need to speak to the Empress.”

He needed to speak to her, to find out what intelligence had tipped off the evacuation of Zakuul. But there was more. Much more.

Theron Shan had been Zayetana’s friend, as far as he knew – or close ally, or whatever words that Sith used to describe those that they considered to be friends. He had seen them chatting together, eating together, even laughing together. They had departed on a shuttle together, time and again, for meetings and reconnaissance and diplomatic missions. Zayetana knew him well. And yet, this Sith, who had brought great destruction in the galaxy in the name of her former master – his father, in another form – had stayed her hand against Arcann himself. She was well within her rights to execute him however she saw fit, as a final payment for the lives he had taken, the lives he had broken, and the planets that lay in waste at his command.

And yet, she had stayed her hand.

She could do so again.

“I need to return to Odessen,” Arcann said. He moved to take one of the crates, finding it lighter than he expected. Perhaps it held clothes. “Come. My quarters are a bit unorganized at the moment, but we’ll work something out.”

*****

Jovi hardly gave herself time to consider what was happening around her and to her before she was landing on Odessen. She and Arcann had managed to fit most of her possessions on the cargo ship, leaving behind a few items that could be replaced easily, though not necessarily cheaply. As a Jedi, she had learned to live with very little in terms of creature comforts, and now, though regrets settled upon her at the loss of her holoterminal and some rare house plants, she could at least start over. Again. For the second time in twelve months.

And who said that she would have any time at all to enjoy more time on Odessen before being sent out somewhere again? Was there any point in letting one’s roots take to the soil?

As the transport began its landing procedures, Arcann placed a hand on her arm. “I need to speak with the Empress,” he murmured, his deep voice barely above a whisper. “Then I will come to help you. I promise.”

Jovi caught herself looking into the bright blue eyes of her beloved. They were, indeed, the most beautiful color that she had ever seen, the color of the seas of Manaan in the sunlight. And how he looked at her, always gentle in his gaze, sometimes with admiration or awe. She knew that she could see those looks time and again and never tire of them, not ever.

Taking up one of the crates, she lugged it off of the transport and out into the shockingly cool air. The Odessen Alliance compound, while located on similar planetary coordinates as was the capitol city of Zakuul, was at a higher altitude. Not only did the ache settle into her knees immediately, but the thinner air sent needles into her lungs. Wincing, she took her time moving to the hangar, slowly acclimating herself to her new surroundings with every breath.

A walker stood near the front of the hangar – no, it wasn’t a walker at all; it had no discernable cockpit at the top of the legs and body, but instead, a chair and controls had been affixed to the outside, beneath a curved piece of transparisteel shielding. On either side of the strange seat, two guns (though which type Jovi could not guess, for her training did not lie in matters of military hardware) had been affixed. Each, a bundle of nozzles and riveted panels, pointed at the landing pad beyond in a menacing fashion.

At the feet of this strange walker stood a twi’lek woman, her garments covered with various dark smears and stains, her face covered by a welding shield. She bent over an empty wheelchair, drawing a welding gun from one of the many bags that hung from its frame. “Okay. I think it’ll take a few zaps, at most,” she said, tilting her head up toward the top of the walker. “That’s salvage for you. Sometimes it has a mind of its own.”

“After that, I think it’ll be ready for a spin.” A voice spoke from behind the walker. It was then that Jovi saw a man with sandy blond hair climbing over the top of the machine, hoisting his weight entirely with his arms. Jovi saw that his legs were tied together, falling limp behind him as he moved in an almost agile fashion over the patched and rusted machinery. He lowered himself into the walker’s seat with a grunt, moved his legs inside with his hands, and began to strap himself in. “She needs a name.”

The twi’lek didn’t reply; she leaned into the leg of the walker, sparks showering her as she began to weld a panel into place.

It was then that the man in the cockpit raised his head, apparently noticing Jovi’s presence for the first time. Jovi could see symmetrical scars upon his freckled cheeks, paired with a series of Implants that ran from there up and around his eyebrows, beneath his sandy bangs. “ _Su cuy’gar, jetii_ ,” he greeted her.

She smiled up at the man. In her experience, Mandalorians were notoriously suspicious of Jedi, if not outright hostile, in situations where they served side-by-side. “I’ve never seen such a walker,” she said, allowing herself a break by resting the container at her metal feet.

“It’s because she has no equal.” The Mandalorian swung a control panel into his lap and began to tap at the buttons. “Vette, you finished?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on.” Vette yanked off her welding shield, rested it among the scattered tools, and moved to the wheelchair to replace the welder that she had borrowed. “This is Torian’s pride and joy,” she said to Jovi. “His own design. And it cost the Alliance not a single credit. Hooray for all of that salvage Vaylin’s goons left behind when they visited us.”

Jovi saw Torian flick a switch, and the machine roared to life, humming as its durasteel knees bent, the walker taking what was unmistakably a battle stance. Torian whooped with joy, grasping a controller in each hand. The guns clicked into an upward position, whirring as they readied for an unseen foe.

“She’s beautiful.” Jovi stepped forward, just below the open cockpit. She knew little of mechanics, but she could see the love that had been instilled into each bundled cable, and every durasteel panel that had been bent into place.

“And she’s ready for base defense.” Torian had to shout over the roar of the craft in order to be heard. “She only needs a name.”

“Um, Blaster…Honor…Glory…Big Droid Thing.” Vette gave a shrug of her shoulders. “Something Mandalorian.”

“Whatever it is, it’s blocking the Commander’s shuttle.” A voice Jovi recognized spoke behind her, and Jovi turned to face Lana Beniko. The Sith woman’s arms were crossed, her brow knitted. “It’ll have to be moved. We’re departing straight away.”

“Fine. I’ll take her for a patrol.” Torian nodded once, pushing the controls forward. The machine lurched, then fell into what was unmistakably a marching cadence, heading off to the end of the platform. Those working and otherwise congregating in the hangar scattered out of the way of the craft’s splayed feet.

“Torian, I’m leaving your chair – _Torian_!” Vette called after him, then, sighing, she began to push the wheelchair toward the opposite wall, where it would not be in danger of the shuttle’s departure. “Mandos and things that go ‘boom’,” she muttered as she departed.

Jovi took the moment to also depart, retrieving the heavy container and making her way through the winding, rocky corridors and toward Arcann’s quarters. A few smiles and positive greetings were cast in her direction as she walked, though, thankfully, no one had attempted to start a conversation with her. She wanted rest. She wanted to right and steady herself. Arcann might understand such a sentiment, but others likely would not.

Or perhaps they would. Odessen knew change. Odessen knew what it was like to call a place home, only to have to gather one’s things in a pack and flee to the next ship, the next tunnel, the next tent, the next world. Opening the door that led to Arcann’s flat, Jovi stepped into the darkness, and winced from the stench that greeted her nostrils. She activated the light panels. A recycler, its ‘full’ light blinking, emitted the unmistakable scent of rotting garbage. Nudging aside a container of what looked (and smelled) like soiled laundry, Jovi rested her heavy load upon the ground, standing up to appraise the flat once again.

Arcann was a slob. He was not used to looking after himself. Well, he would learn, for she certainly wasn’t going to live in a place that smelled like a Zakuul swamp.

Jovi started by opening the laundry machine, stooping over to see that it was empty before adding the basketful of soiled undergarments and socks inside. She added soap, turned it on, and set the small basket on the lid. It was then that she caught herself – _doing her boyfriend’s laundry, by the Stars_. The thought drew a chuckle from her lips, and she turned, leaning back and against the machine, once again surveying the mess before her. Arcann would return to help her finish moving her belongings into the flat, to help her clean it up, before –

The door opened.

“You know,” Jovi began, before even looking toward the door, “we need to have a discussion about the state of this apartment.”

“I agree,” a voice said, one that was decidedly not Arcann.

Jovi raised her head. Senya stood in the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back.

“But first,” Senya murmured, “I was wondering if you would like to take a walk with me.” Her face was unreadable. Intense, but not angry. What was most perturbing was the fact that she was deliberately blocking Jovi within the Force, making her true emotions a mystery. “We need to talk.”


End file.
